


run through rivers and smile

by bravestyles



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, Domestic Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Flashbacks, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nightmares, Panic Attacks, Physical Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rape/Non-con Elements, Slow Burn, Therapy, other spoilery tags in description, somewhat graphic descriptions of abuse, threats of suicide (not from harry)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-28
Updated: 2020-09-28
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:41:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 90,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26689831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bravestyles/pseuds/bravestyles
Summary: Harry is stuck in a long-term abusive relationship with his abusive boyfriend Sam. His friends try to help him out of it; along the way, Louis and Harry become closer.
Relationships: Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson
Comments: 102
Kudos: 284





	1. chapter one

**Author's Note:**

> title: i like to dance - alex the astronaut (HIGHLY suggest listening to!)
> 
> SPOILERY TAGS: harry is roofied and raped by his boyfriend (scene isn't on-screen). there are some implications that it was gang-rape, although it is up to the reader to interpret it.

-

Harry’s not blind to what he has lost because of Sam. 

The obvious things that he’s lost: going out with friends, or just out in general. Having friends at all. Seeing his family much, because that means he’s three hours away in Holmes Chapel and Sam doesn’t like that. That one’s starting to leave a mark; his sister is convinced Harry’s becoming spoiled and his mum thinks he’s forgotten about her. She sounds sadder every time he does call home. He can’t go on social media anymore. Sam deleted that all off his phone early on in their relationship, and Harry’s certain that it was the first red flag that he missed. He has to dress to Sam’s standards, meaning no more showy tops that make him feel good about himself or ripped jeans since they’re “trashy” or graphic tees that Sam deems as stupid. He can’t go out for trivia night anymore like he used to with his mates every week, and he can’t talk to strangers, and he can’t ever have his phone off. 

Those are the rules, he supposes. The things that are blatantly said for Harry to follow. But those don’t account for how much he’s actually lost, how much he’s had to sacrifice. It’s like he doesn’t even recognize himself anymore. The life he has now, on paper, is perfect; he’s in his last year of university, living in a huge flat in London with his boyfriend. He should be happy, and he’s not. It makes him want to cry. 

He does cry. A lot. Mostly on the way to university and back. Never at home, though, because Sam doesn’t like it when he cries. It’s almost like it makes him feel remorse, something that Harry accepted Sam wasn’t capable of a long time ago. 

There are times, usually after the crying or when he’s by himself at home, that he sits and questions how he got here. He’s twenty-two years old and he’s lived four years of his life tied to a man that hurts him. _Abuses_ him -- he’s not delusional. He gets so angry at himself, then, for staying so long and wasting so much of his life. But he doesn’t have a choice, and if he does, he’s too blinded by fear to see it. It’s hard to beat himself up about how everything happened, though, because Sam did it so carefully. 

They were together for an entire year and a half before Sam ever laid a hand on him. It was two weeks after they moved in together, Harry nineteen and Sam twenty-four. Looking back, it was smart on Sam’s part to wait to do anything until he had Harry trapped in a false sense of security. Harry was cooking dinner for the fourteenth night in a row, and he had asked Sam if he could start helping out a little more, and before he knew what was happening, he had bruises shaped as fingerprints around his wrist. That was when the physical abuse started, but Harry’s sure the mental part of it began on day one, that he was groomed and had his brain being secretly rewired this entire time. 

At first it was just shoving and pulling and small bruises. Harry brushed it off. So Sam was a little forward, so what. That’s what Harry convinced himself of: Sam liked being in control, being dominant, he already knew that for their sex life. It was just like that, except different. He convinced himself he didn’t mind it, that it wasn't that bad. Harry had consented to being pushed around a bit in bed, so maybe this wasn’t any different. And then it turned to yanking and scratching and slapping. The yanking and scratching, again, Harry wrote off in his head as things he didn’t like but were still somewhat acceptable. It’s when he started to question himself; he _did_ have a sharp tone in his voice, he _did_ say he’d be home sooner, he _did_ deserve that. But the first time that Sam slapped him across the face for leaving a cabinet door open, he was terrified. For the first time, Harry properly understood what he was in, and he had never felt so embarrassed in his life. He _let_ himself get there, he _let_ himself drive his boyfriend to the point of abuse. And Harry never felt so low, feeling like he was this -- this messed up person that made his boyfriend so angry that he lashed out. He thought he deserved it. Now, Harry knows better, but he didn’t know better then. He thought Sam was just beyond frustrated with Harry, and once Harry started to shape up a little, it’d stop. 

It was probably the worst thing he could have done. Once Sam was sure Harry wasn’t going to leave, the punches and the choking and the banging his head off walls and countertops started. The first time Sam choked him, they were in the shower having sex. Sam had his hand around Harry’s throat loosely, and he gradually increased the pressure until Harry was trying to pry his hand away and pushing him, trying to get him to stop. It was the first time he fought back, and it was unsuccessful. Sam finished fucking him with his fist around Harry’s neck, and when he was done, he threw Harry down to his knees in the shower and left, locking him in the bathroom for hours. 

At the time, Harry didn’t think it was -- that. He didn’t think it was rape, because Sam wouldn’t take it that far. He wouldn’t. He had hurt Harry just like he had hurt Harry before, and it wasn’t any different because they were having sex. Harry consented to being fucked, and he might not have consented to being choked, but that wasn’t -- it was separate in his head. For a long time, Harry genuinely believed Sam wouldn’t take it far enough to turn their sex violent like that. 

It was only three months ago when he crossed that line. 

The first time that Harry truly understood that he had been hurt in that context before (he doesn’t know the right words to use, rape and sexual assault feel like words that don’t belong to him, but he truly doesn’t know at this point). It was the worst night of Harry’s life when Sam came home drunk yet still so strong and fucked Harry without warning or prep or lube. Harry clawed and kicked and screamed, he screamed so loud, but it didn’t even matter. After Sam finished and passed out in bed, Harry scrambled to grab his necessities and car keys and left. He drove to his best mate’s dorm and crashed with him for the night with the excuse that he went to a party and was too plastered to drive home. It was obvious he wasn’t drunk and that he was crying and hurt -- he could barely even walk right -- but Liam didn’t ask any questions. Harry doesn’t know if he had believed him or just didn’t want to intrude, but in the end, it didn’t matter because Harry ended up going back home after his class that day and fell for Sam’s excuses. 

He was drunk. It was an accident. He thought Harry was still loose enough from when they had sex the night before. He truly didn’t mean it -- _Come on, Hazza, I wouldn’t hurt you like that. Do you seriously think I’m that bad of a person?_ He was drunk and horny and not thinking properly, and it would never happen again. 

It happened again three nights later, and Sam was stone-cold sober. 

Between what happened the other night and that night, it was too much and Harry bled. A lot. A concerning amount. He had thrown up twice after it happened, but he was pretty sure that was from the trauma of it all. He ended up having to make a doctor’s appointment after it didn’t stop after two days and Sam caught him frantically rubbing out a blood stain on the back of his trousers. Even he said he should probably see someone about it. 

The doctor was immediately concerned. Harry had come in, clearly nervous and uncomfortable, and he struggled to explain to her the lie of what happened. He had rehearsed it in his head, but as he said it out loud, flashes of what really happened kept hammering against his mind and it made it difficult to talk. After he explained what had allegedly happened, she talked to him about other stuff. About school and holidays and future plans. She was trying to ease his nerves, maybe trying to get him comfortable enough to tell her what really happened. After Harry relaxed a little, she asked him again what he thought the cause of the bleeding was, and his heart stuttered in his chest as he stared past her. 

He was drunk. He didn’t prep himself enough before using a sex toy. That’s what happened. 

She nodded. “Were you with a partner?”

“ _No,_ ” he said quickly, too quickly. He cringed at himself and rubbed his sweaty palms on his pants. “I was by myself.”

“But you do have a partner, correct?”

He nodded. He already told her had a boyfriend, so there was no point in lying. 

She asked him a few more questions that Harry dodged before sending him on his way with a few pamphlets on sexual and domestic abuse. He had been so shaken up that he sat in his car outside the office for twenty minutes, not caring that Sam was going to be upset that he was out for so long. He called a friend, Nick, to chat for a bit once he was unable to calm down by himself, and Nick was cold to him and asked why he was calling after ignoring him for so long. He was being a complete hardass, and after a few too many jabs, Harry inhaled sharply and said, “Nick, I’m not doing so great right now and just need someone to talk to, and I know it might not be fair to ask you to be that person, but I really need someone.”

That day, everything felt too real. He was reeling from the trauma and the uncertainty of the future, and the doctor knew too much and nobody else knew enough. Harry needed someone, anyone, even if it was maybe not the smartest thing to do if he wanted to keep people unsuspecting. 

“What’s wrong, H?” Nick asked softly, and Harry rested his head on the steering wheel and took a deep breath. 

“School’s just stressing me out.”

Nick hummed. “You’re a smart lad, Harry. You’ll figure it out. You have a good head on your shoulders.”

“Yeah,” Harry whispered, voice cracking. “I hope so.”

After they were finished talking, Harry thanked him and drove home, where Sam was agitated Harry took so long in coming back and Harry tried to numb himself so everything would stop hurting so much. 

He could have told that doctor the truth. He could have told Nick. And he didn’t, so if anything happened to him in the future, really, the only person to blame would be himself. 

-

He’s in the line at the supermarket when Liam texts him. 

For some reason, it makes him frown. And then it makes him sad that it made him frown, because Liam is his best friend and it shouldn’t be a strange thing to see a text from him. They became friends right at the start of uni and had intended to keep it that way, and then Harry went ahead and cut him off. Sam didn’t want them hanging out, but he didn’t say he had to stop texting Liam. Harry did that on his own after things started worsening with Sam; the guilt for not trusting Liam enough to ask him for help ripped through him every time he talked to him, so he stopped texting him. He had cut off his other friends a long time ago, but he clung to Liam, and now he’s lost even him. All of his friends think he’s shit person who stopped talking to them out of the blue, and that now includes Liam. 

_Hiya mate. Long time no see. You have Louis in your English & film studies class right?_

It’s random, and not what Harry wants to see. He wanted an invite somewhere or to hear that Liam missed him, two things that Harry doesn’t deserve. It’s been so long since Harry’s gone anywhere with any of his friends, so Harry’s pretty sure Sam would let him go out. 

“Next in line, please,” the cashier says. It takes Harry a second to realize that’s him, and he sheepishly puts his things on the conveyor belt. As the man scans his things, Harry replies to Liam. 

_Yeah why?_

Louis’ in his English and film studies class as well as his creative writing class. They’re in the same friend group, although they don’t interact outside of social gatherings, except for any partner work in the class. Harry and Louis’ paths have crossed plenty of times, so there’s no real reason that they haven’t become better friends. Except maybe for the fact that Harry met him properly after Sam really started having a go at him, and Harry was slowly shutting down. They’re both English majors, and Harry’s concentration is in literary and cultural studies while Louis’ is in. . . well, he doesn’t really have one, he kind of just picks and chooses what classes he wants to take. He’s also majoring in drama, and English is just a back up plan for him. They have the same majors and same friends and same classes, and yet they’ve never really meshed properly. 

Liam responds. _He asked me for your number so he can ask about some assignment. Didn’t just want to randomly hand out your number._ There’s a shrugging girl emoji and then, _alright if I give it to him?_

Harry already has his number, so he tells Liam he’ll just text him and tries not to be offended that Louis didn’t bother to save his number any of the times Harry had texted him about a partner assignment. It’s fine, though. He knows how fast Louis’ mind moves, so he shouldn’t be offended. 

“Do you want your receipt?” the cashier asks, and he’s already crumbling it because nobody nowadays wants a receipt. But Sam requires that he brings back a receipt whenever he goes out. Harry uses Sam’s credit card most of the time, so he supposes it’s fair. Even though he hates himself for justifying what Sam does, it’s almost easier to accept that there’s something he could be doing better rather than accepting that he fell in love with a psychopath. 

“Yes, please,” Harry answers, and the bloke looks down at the crumpled receipt and back up at Harry. “It’s fine, just put it in the bag please.” He laughs, and it’s a little forced, and the man does as he’s told before telling Harry to have a good night. 

When he gets to his car, he takes a deep breath and works up the courage to text Liam. _miss you loads x_ he writes, and he feels so stupid that it makes tears burn his eyes. It’s just easier on Harry if Sam’s the only person he has to worry about. He shouldn’t go and try to fix any bridges that he has no power to mend. 

_Coffee soon? Liam replies. My treat x._

A small sob escapes him as he says that sounds great. He’s cracking, he can feel it. One of these days, Sam is going to shatter him. It’s terrifying, not knowing how soon that day will come. 

-

Sam, like Harry assumed, is fine with him going out with Liam.

“I don’t mind Liam, you know that,” Sam says. He pets Harry’s hair softly, and it’s gentle and soothing. Harry is almost completely relaxed right now, and he’d go as far to say that he’s enjoying Sam’s company tonight. They’re having a good night. Sam hasn’t gotten annoyed with him once. As mad as it sounds, Harry still cares about Sam. He wouldn’t say he’s in love with anymore -- that had been severed completely when he hurt Harry during sex (at least, that’s what Harry likes to believe) -- but he still feels a strong connection to him. Which is wrong, he knows it is, and there are bruises on his neck to prove that. 

“He’s nice,” Harry agrees. His conversation skills have become shit. Everything he says to Sam has to be completely stale and harmless, and there can’t be a single thing that Sam could disagree with. Harry has mastered the skill of repeating Sam’s words back to him in a different way, and he’s accidentally implemented that into other places in his life as well. 

They cuddle for a bit, and Harry’s half-asleep against Sam’s shoulder when he taps Harry’s cheek and says, “Come on, let’s go. Get undressed for me while I have a beer, okay? I’ll be there in a sec.”

Harry agrees mindlessly, and as he sits in their bed naked and staring at the floor, he’s suddenly aware of how disappointed everyone he cares about would be in him if they saw him like this. He’s weak. He has no backbone, no thought of his own. It’s probably a good thing he hasn’t seen his mum in so long, because he’s not even sure she’d recognize him. 

-

Liam and Harry go out for coffee two days later, and Harry doesn't realize how much he missed him until they’re exchanging a one-armed hug at the door. They order their drinks and Liam does pay, which makes Harry feel stupidly guilty. As they wait for their coffee, they stand off to the side and engage in small talk. _How are your classes going? Good. How’s Sophia? Good. How’s Sam? Good. How’s your mum? Good._

When they get their drinks and sit down, Harry realizes how much he’s struggling to look Liam in the eye. He tries, but his eyes keep shooting everywhere but Liam’s, so he settles for staring down at his drink and hoping it doesn’t make him look disinterested. His nerves are shot right now, and he wants to enjoy Liam’s presence, but his brain is whirling. 

Liam is staring down at his coffee, too, when he suddenly looks up, looking excited. “Did you ever get around to texting Louis?”

“Oh,” Harry says. “Yeah. Yeah, I did a few nights ago.” 

Liam nods, his smile slowly slipping as he realizes that maybe it wasn’t the best conversation starter after all.

Their relationship has become severely fractured. Harry hopes it’s not beyond repair, and to avoid aiding its failure, he tries to keep the conversation going. 

“We, uh. The assignment, like. We have to create a stupid presenation about a different era of film and how it impacts today’s industry, and Louis lost the instruction sheet. He just needed a picture of it.”

“Ah, makes sense. He’s got too much on his brain all the time. Kid can barely keep track of his left foot.”

Harry smiles, feeling a little shy. 

“So how have you been?” Liam asks. Afterwards, he takes a sip of his coffee. He ordered a cold coffee, so he doesn’t have to wait for it to cool down like Harry does. 

“Fine. You?”

Before Liam answers, Harry’s phone vibrates against the table. It’s Sam, and Harry quickly picks it up to read the message. _Did you get there safe?_ Sam asked, and Harry texts him back _Yes love xx love you._

“Sorry,” Harry mumbles, setting his phone back down. “It’s just Sam.”

“Oh, I bumped into him the other day,” he says, lighting up. Liam’s always liked Sam, has always viewed him as this inspirational big-shot because he’s so much older than them. He’s majoring in economics, Sam’s an accountant. They’re number people, and they bonded over that whenever their paths crossed. 

That’s another reason why Harry can’t just leave Sam: his friends all love him, and his mum thinks he’s hung the bloody moon. God, his mum. It genuinely makes him ill thinking about it. She’s the one that introduced them. She’d been wary, at first, because Sam was so much older than Harry, but when she saw how well they got on, she said she knew it was meant to be. It was harmless, truly; his mum tried her hardest to show that she didn’t mind Harry’s sexuality, and that involved introducing him to every gay man she came across. If only Harry had taken to any of the other boys Anne had suggested. 

If he were to break things off with Sam and make it out alive, how would he tell his mum? He couldn’t. Ever. He would never put that guilt onto his mother.

“Where?” Harry asks. 

“The pub. He was out with some friends from work.”

Harry stifles a bitter laugh. He didn’t know Sam went to the pub, which wouldn’t be a big deal if it wasn’t for the way Sam keeps him on such a tight leash. 

“That’s nice.”

“Yeah, it was. He’s so, like. Old now.” He laughs awkwardly, and Harry shifts uncomfortably in his seat. “Not that he’s, like, too old for you or anything. I didn’t -- he just told me about how he got that senior position at his firm, and I was like, ah, fuck, right, he’s a proper adult.”

Harry shrugs self-consciously. “He’s only twenty-seven.” Twenty-eight next month, but. It doesn’t matter. 

“Must be weird, though, right?” Liam asks quietly. Guiltily. “Being at completely different stages of your life? I mean, don’t take this the wrong way, but Sam must like you a lot to wait around for someone who’s still in uni. Sophia’s only two years older than me, and sometimes it’s difficult for us. It’s probably over between the two of us, to be honest. I don’t know how you do it.”

Sam’s not faithful to him. Harry doesn’t like thinking about that. 

“It just works for us, I guess. I don’t know.”

“That’s good, mate.”

It’s quiet, then, and Harry doesn’t attempt to fix it this time. 

-

They head back to Liam’s dorm after coffee, even though Harry knows that he probably shouldn’t. He hasn’t seen Liam in so long, though, and he doesn’t want it to be over yet. They’ve somewhat gotten past the awkward stage, now being able to banter back and forth a little. There’s still ice to thaw between them, but they’re trying. To make up for the extra time, Harry will have to stop somewhere to buy something so he can come home with a receipt, which is fine. 

He hasn’t gotten to see Liam’s dorm yet this semester, so he’s excited to finally be here. It’s very Liam; clean and organized and not too revealing. If you don’t look close enough, you wouldn’t notice the pictures of his sister he has on the second shelf of his desk or the little figurine on his nightstand or the guitar picks taped to the wall beside his lamp. Harry’s focusing on the small details when someone -- Louis -- comes out of the bathroom. 

Liam looks confused. “What are you doing here? Don’t you have class? Not to mention that this isn’t your dorm.”

“Don’t see how any of that is relevant,” Louis mumbles, plopping onto Liam’s roommate’s bed. Liam fusses, but he doesn’t tell him to get off. Louis gives Harry a small smile, reminding Harry that he’s not out of place here. He’s _not_. These are his friends, there’s no need to be nervous. 

“We’re going out for drinks tonight,” Louis says. “Wouldn’t mind seeing you there. I mean, so long as you don’t bring around that Nick bloke.”

Harry smiles a little. He hasn’t seen Nick in ages, which is sad, considering they used to be annoyingly close. Almost as close as Liam and he were.

“Can’t,” Harry says stiffly. “I have loads of coursework to catch up on.”

Liam immediately looks upset. “Haz, mate. I haven’t spent a night with you in forever.”

Harry feels cornered, unreasonably so, and his chest tightens a bit. He hates confrontation. 

“I -- ”

“Just one drink,” Liam begs, looking desperate. “One drink, and then you can go. . . do whatever it is you do nowadays.”

He’s angry, that much is evident. He’s trying not to let it show, but it’s obvious anyway. He feels put out, like Harry abandoned him for no good reason. Guilt tears through Harry’s gut. 

“I have to study,” Harry says weakly, offering them both an appreciative smile. “But thanks for the offer.”

Liam tries again. “Please, mate. Come on.”

Before Harry can respond, Louis says, “Liam, it’s fine. Clearly he doesn’t want to. He always sucked at trivia anyway.”

He’s trying to make Liam feel better, not make Harry feel worse, but it makes him feel like garbage anyway. 

He leaves a few minutes later. It’s obvious Liam and Louis feel lied to, and Harry doesn’t want to intrude on their night out. When he gets home with a receipt for a book from the campus library, Sam pulls him onto his lap and Harry regrets ever going out.

-

On their very first date, Sam had taken him out for dinner in a park during Christmas time. There were strings of lights everywhere, reflecting onto their faces as they conversed in the dark. Harry wasn’t nervous, not really; Sam was so charming and relaxed that he had a way about him that just sucked Harry right in. 

“You’re gorgeous, love,” Sam whispered to him, fingers holding Harry’s chin firmly. “Don’t really do sex on the first date, but for you. . .”

Harry blushed and leaned closer. “I don’t think I’m ready for that.”

Harry wasn’t a virgin, but he was far less experienced than Sam and it made him anxious. He hadn’t gone all the way with a boy before, either. Girls, yes, but not boys. And from day one, Sam subtly coerced him into giving more than he was ready to. Sam said it was okay if he wasn’t ready for sex, that they could wait however long he needed, but he’d go crazy if he didn’t get _something._ He played it off as this charming thing, like Harry was just that irresistible that Sam would go mad if he couldn’t have him. It made Harry feel so fucking _special._ It’s why he agreed to do anything at all. It’s why he went along with getting blown in the middle of the park; he was nervous, so nervous, but Sam kept saying he’d take care of him and he did. He didn’t even ask for anything in return, and Harry thought that meant he was a nice guy. 

On their second date to the movies, it wasn’t even a week later since Sam was supposedly dying to see him again, and Harry felt on top of the world with him. Sam, this older man, liked him so much that he wanted to see him so often and text him everyday. It made Harry feel _interesting,_ like he was the main character in an exciting rom-com that the audience all envied. 

The third date was at a comedy show. The fourth, a trip to the mall where Sam paid for everything, including the sexy lingerie he convinced Harry to buy. The fifth, an art museum. The sixth, a concert. The seventh, a game night with his mates. The eighth, he took Harry to London where they spent the weekend together, and Sam said he wanted to marry him. 

Harry remembers feeling entirely overwhelmed by that. They had only been together for two months -- and looking back, going on eight dates, one of them being a trip out of town, is far too much -- and Sam was saying he wanted to marry him, that’s _insane._ He saw that it made Harry uncomfortable, and Sam cried, he _cried,_ when he explained to Harry that he loved him so much and couldn’t imagine living without him anymore and how he had never felt like that with anybody else. He turned it around onto Harry so _Harry_ felt bad, and he tried his hardest to fix it and Sam wouldn’t calm down until Harry offered to have sex with him. 

Sam pretended to be surprised, like that wasn’t what he wanted in the first place. “Are you sure you’re ready?”

“Yes. I want to show you that I care about you, too.”

That weekend is the first memory that Harry can confidently pick out as a master plan of manipulation. He took Harry to London as a means to to convince him to have sex. He confessed his love far too early to trap Harry, and he guilited him into saying that he loved him back. He was seeing how Harry’s brain operated, where to tug and how hard in order to get what he wanted, and Harry was oblivious to it. He left that trip thinking that he was lucky Sam didn’t break up with him for not immediately saying he wanted to marry him, too. He left thinking that he actually did want to marry him. 

Their first time together was actually nice. It’s a good memory. Sam was gentle and careful and he talked Harry through it. He held him tightly afterwards and said he did so good. It didn’t start getting a little weird until the fifth time they had sex, not even a week later. Sam liked doing things quickly; Harry didn’t have time to reflect on their relationship if he was constantly with Sam. 

The problem is, Harry didn’t _have_ any kinks yet. He was barely eighteen and new to sleeping with men, and when he slept with girls, he was always worried about what she liked, not so much what he liked. He had watched some porn, and some got him hotter than others, but he didn’t really have concrete things that he would identify as kinks that he had. 

Somehow, Harry genuinely doesn’t remember how, Sam convinced him he liked to be roughed up a bit. That he liked to have his wrists pinned down and later tied, that he liked to be fucked hard, that he liked to be called a slut and a whore and worthless. It’s so _confusing_ to look back on. He didn’t realize he wasn’t actually into that sort of stuff until recently, when he sat down and really thought about it. He _thought_ he liked it, he really did. But the more he thought about it, he thought _well, sure, I never really liked to be spanked or hit, but,_ and _well, Sam’s into that, so it’s okay,_ and _it’s fine, it doesn’t hurt_. He truly doesn’t know if Sam manipulated him into thinking that he liked certain things or if it was on Harry for not being clear in the beginning that he didn’t, but either way, whether it was from Sam or himself, someone persuaded him into taking things that he didn’t like. 

That first time Sam slapped him during sex -- not on his bum, but a hard slap across his face -- Harry was too stunned to really react, and then Sam was doing something else that felt good so Harry could kind of forget about it. That’s how Sam always got away with it: he’d do something Harry was uncertain about without warning, and then he wouldn’t give him time to digest it before he was doing something else. 

When Harry was nineteen, he still was on the fence about going to university or not. Somehow, the year ended with Harry enrolled in classes at a university in London, where Sam had recently bought a flat. And this is the bit that Harry feels like he was let down by the people around him; why did his mum think it was a good idea to let him move away with a man he wasn’t even with for that long? Why didn’t his sister tell him it wasn’t a good idea? Why wasn’t anybody realizing Harry was being turned inside out by a man who claimed to love him? It was so _obvious_. 

At the end of the day, though, Harry makes a choice every day by staying here. And he won’t realize that’s just something Sam convinced him of, too, for a long time. 

-

School is the only thing Harry’s good at anymore, and he’s thankful for the distraction it gives him. He can lose himself in school, because nothing about literature coursework reminds him of Sam. Sometimes he tries to distract himself with other things, but somehow, someway, the roads in his mind usually lead back to Sam. With school, it’s not really like that. He’s grateful for it. 

He’s in the library with Louis running over their presentation before class. It’s a little awkward, seeing him, but at first, neither of them bring up how Harry seemingly lied to get out of hanging out with Liam. 

They’re looking off the slides on Harry’s phone, and Sam has texted him four times in the last ten minutes. It’s irritating Louis, he can tell, but he keeps quickly sliding away the notification and not mentioning it. And then Sam texts, _Jesus Christ h you have a phone, use it to text me back when I text you. I know your class doesn’t start for another ten minutes so text me back_

Harry flushes and pulls his phone towards him as he quickly texts Sam back. He responds to the earlier texts and apologizes for not texting back right away. _I’m studying for my presentation, sorry, love you to bits xxxx._ He’s staring down at his phone, too nervous that he upset Sam to think about anything else, when Louis clears his throat.

“You got yourself a bossy boyfriend,” Louis says, and he doesn’t sound very happy. Harry thinks quickly and tries to smile. 

“I forgot to text him that I got to school safely, that’s all. He’s just a worrier.”

Louis doesn’t buy it, it’s clear in the way he frowns and leans closer. “Isn’t he, like, a lot older than you? Liam was telling me about him the other day.”

“Just a few years,” Harry says, and then he grabs the paper in between them and looks down at it. “It says here we need to talk for at least three minutes. You think we’ll be able to hit that?”

Louis doesn’t respond right away, and when Harry looks at him, he looks skeptical. Slowly, he says, “Yeah, sure. We’ll be fine.”

“Okay.”

It’s awkward, then, because they weren’t done going over their slides but Harry’s not going to show Louis his phone again, especially since Sam hasn’t texted back yet, meaning he’s probably angry. Harry stares down at his phone and Louis stares at him until he finally speaks. 

“Do you have plans after school?”

Harry shakes his head, still looking down at his phone.

“Do you want to go out for coffee afterwards?” he asks, and Harry gives him a polite smile as he declines. 

“I can’t,” he says. “Sorry. Thanks for the offer.”

“I thought you weren’t doing anything?” Louis asks, sounding confused, and Harry blanches, trying to think of a good excuse. Louis knew what he was doing, asking him that first, and Harry really fucking hates how oblivious he still is. How is it that everyone seems to be one step ahead of him all the time?

“Don’t worry about it,” Louis says before Harry can respond. 

Harry feels guilty. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Louis says. He grabs his backpack off the ground and stands. “I get it. Wouldn’t want the boyfriend to worry, right?”

Harry stares at him, a little stunned. 

“We should get to class,” Louis tells him, already turning away. Harry stays back for a few seconds, trying to collect himself, trying to figure out if Louis saw through him as well as Harry thinks he did. He eventually follows, and he joins Louis outside the classroom door with a few other students who are here before the professor. He’s about to say something to Louis before Sam texts him back. 

_I get it,_ the text says. _There are things more important than me._

Harry curses himself silently as he quickly texts back. _Nothing’s more important than you baby x You’re so good to me I know that, I’ll be better about checking my phone. Sorry love :( xxx_

 _Don’t even worry about it,_ Sam texts back, meaning that Harry has effectively pisised him off. He tries not to panic outwardly, but it isn’t easy to get a forewarning that he’s going to be slapped around tonight. Usually he doesn’t have to know before it’s happening, usually it just happens and he deals with the consequences later. Now, he has to know what he’s done all day, and he will have to wait for Sam to get home. It makes him feel nauseous, and when he glances up, Louis’ staring down at Harry’s phone, at the texts on the screen. Harry quickly exits the messaging app and tucks his phone into his pocket before crossing his arms and chewing on the inside of his cheek, ignoring Louis. Louis wouldn’t get it, anyway. 

Their presentation goes fine, and Harry leaves immediately after, purposefully ignoring Louis when he asks him to wait up for him. 

-

That night, desperate and scared, Harry devises a plan. It’s cheap and, if it fails, it’ll leave him humiliated. If it works, it’ll still probably end with him being hurt. He’s done this before, not too often but occasionally, and sometimes Sam takes to it, other times it angers him more.

Sam is furious in that quiet, terrifying way of his when he gets home, so Harry acts quickly. He greets him and Sam grunts as a response, and when he goes to the bedroom to change, Harry follows, heart hammering in his chest. 

“Sam,” he says softly, standing by the door. Sam glares at him as he pulls off his shirt, and Harry tentatively comes closer. He tucks his fingers into Sam’s belt and tugs on him lightly. “Let me,” he whispers, staring at Sam with wide eyes. “Let me make it up to you.”

Sam narrows his eyes and grabs Harry’s wrist tightly. “You think you can try and distract me with sex? Do you really think I’m that dumb, Harry?”

“No,” Harry says quickly. “No, I know you’re not dumb. But I’ve been thinking of how to make it up to you, and I thought maybe. . .” He slides his hand down, ignoring how he’s shaking, and cups Sam through his pants. “Maybe I can be useful this way, you know? Maybe I can try to relax you after stressing you out. It’s the least I could do, after being disrespectful.”

It’s working, and it sends relief running through Harry’s veins. He can handle rough sex; he’ll take that over being beaten any night. And no, he doesn’t feel good about this. He feels dirty and awful, but it’s -- he’s scared. He doesn’t want Sam upset with him. And a part of him really does believe that he should have known better than to ignore Sam’s texts, that this is really the least he could do.

“Get down on your knees,” Sam says decisively, and Harry drops to the floor easily enough. He’s still scared, and he’s still not ready for the pain that’s going to come, but pain in this shape is easier to digest sometimes. 

Afterwards, when Harry’s laying in bed with hurt running all over his skin and bruises blooming on his hips, he’s relieved and less stressed than before. He thinks that he’s smoothed over the situation, so he gets out of bed and makes dinner for the two of them. Sam is in a good mood, for a while. Until he decides that the noodles Harry made aren’t cooked enough and he slams the plate in the sink, letting it break. Harry sits at the trouble, panic and sorrow eating him alive. When Sam leaves the room without hurting him, Harry gets up and cleans the broken glass, taking it as a win. 

-

Two weeks later, he accidentally runs into Liam on campus. _‘Accidentally’._ It reeks of a planned event, especially with how Louis just so happens to be with him when they only got out of class ten minutes ago. Harry’s on his way to his second class, so he’s glad he has an excuse to be brief. 

“Hey, Liam,” he says, smiling politely. It pushes against the skin on his cheekbone that’s bruised and covered with makeup and tries not to wince. It’s fresh. It’s three hours fresh; Harry accidentally woke Sam up while he was getting ready for school, and Sam slapped him so hard that Harry’s ear rang the entire way here. 

“Let’s go get something to eat,” Liam says, and he’s not smiling. Neither of them are. Anxiety claws at Harry’s stomach. 

“I have to get to class, but thanks.”

“Skip it.”

“I can’t,” Harry says, furrowing his eyebrows. He holds the ends of his backpack straps tightly and smiles again. “I have to go now, actually. It was nice seeing you, but -- ”

Liam steps in front of him, looking apologetic and angry all at once. Harry could easily side-step him, but he feels stuck, suddenly. 

“We need to talk, Harry,” Liam says softly. “About Sam. We have to talk about it.”

Immediately, Harry’s system kicks into overdrive. His whole body goes hot with fear and it’s too hard to think and blood rushes in his ears. His heart is pounding, and he’s trying to convince himself to just leave, to run away if he has to, but he can’t stop looking between Louis and Liam, trying to read the situation better. 

“Can we talk in my dorm?” Liam asks. “Louis doesn’t have to be there, it can just be us.”

Harry swallows thickly. He can feel sweat starting to form on his hairline, in his armpits. “I have to get to -- ” he cuts himself off, too dazed to finish. They don’t know anything. They couldn’t. Could they?

They sure look like they know something.

“You have bruises on your wrist,” Liam says evenly. 

“You always do,” Louis adds, quiet. 

Harry goes to grip at his left wrist where he knows there are bruises from this morning, and his hand grips skin. His sleeve has ridden up from how he’s holding his backpack, he wasn’t -- he didn’t really think about that. It’s not something he naturally thinks about. 

He feels sick to his stomach. 

“I fell,” he says, staring at the space between Louis and Liam. 

“Like how you were drunk that time you showed up at my dorm out of the blue?” Liam asks. He’s shaking his head and frowning. “Doesn’t make sense, Hazza. You were sober then, and you don’t get finger-shaped bruises on your wrist from falling.”

“I need to go,” Harry whispers, turning around. It’s the wrong way to class, but he couldn’t sit there anyway. He needs to go home. He needs to -- something. His brain is whirling, thoughts going so fast that it hurts. 

“If you go home now, Sam’s going to know something’s up,” Louis points out, and Harry pauses in place, realizing that he’s right. 

“Just come to my dorm for a bit,” Liam pleads. 

“To do _what?_ ” Harry snaps, turning back around. “To _talk?_ I don’t need to fucking talk.”

Liam shakes his head sadly. “You do. We need to talk about this.”

“I barely even fucking know him,” Harry spits, pointing at Louis. “Or _you,_ ” he says. “I don’t know you anymore, and you don’t know me, so just -- ”

“You can talk about this with me, or you can talk about it with your mother,” Liam says, voice void of emotion like he isn’t scrambling Harry’s brain right now. “I have her number from last Christmas. I didn’t actually care to wish her happy holidays, Haz. I was worried about you. Still am. I didn’t call her then, and I regret it, so please. Come talk with me.”

“What the fuck,” Harry says, no real charge behind it. He takes a step back, weighs out his options as much as he can when it feels like his brain is trying to turn itself inside out, and then stares at Liam. “I’m fine,” he says. “We can -- if you want to talk, fine. We can talk. But I’m fine.”

“Okay,” Liam says. “My dorm?”

Harry shrugs. “I guess.”

“Do you want Louis to stay or go?”

Harry shifts his eyes to Louis, who doesn’t look as guilty as Liam does. He must’ve told Liam that he had bruises on his wrist. What a fucking prick. “He can stay,” Harry decides. “It’s not like anything’s the matter, so.”

Maybe playing this off as no big deal will work. 

“Okay,” Liam says again. He gives Harry this soft smile that is beyond insulting before he turns and starts the walk to his dorm. Harry trails behind the two of them, feeling nauseous and stupid and like a failure. This is all his fault, he wasn’t careful enough. He’s so goddamn stupid.

“Sit down,” Liam tells him when they get inside his dorm, and Harry laughs kind of manically and says, “Nope, I’m fine.”

Louis and Liam sit on the same bed. Harry stays standing, resisting the urge to pace. He has his arms crossed over his chest protectively, his right thumb nail between his teeth. It’s scary how physically ill he feels over some words. 

“What’s going on between you and Sam?” Liam asks after about a minute of silence. Harry stares out the window, trying to keep his mind blank so he can think of good answers to Liam’s questions. 

“He’s my boyfriend,” he says stupidly. “You know that.”

“Why is he hurting you?”

“Fuck you,” Harry snaps angrily, glaring at Liam. Fucking shit, that wasn’t a good answer. He takes a calming breath and looks back out the window. “Don’t accuse him of something like that. That’s messed up, mate.”

“Something’s been going on with you for ages,” Liam says. “And I never really knew what, but last year Louis told me he thought he saw bruises on your neck. And I’ve been thinking about it, Harry, and it makes sense.”

“Sounds like Louis needs to mind his own business.”

Liam stands, and Harry takes a large step back, feeling cornered. Liam looks so upset, so concerned, and Harry isn’t making it any better. Liam slowly sits back down, raising his hands in surrender. 

“Isolating yourself from friends and family is common in abuse victims,” Liam says carefully. “So is always being preoccupied, jumpy, attached to your phone. Defensive of your relationship.”

Harry scoffs half-heartedly. “That’s awfully terrible evidence to have when you’re accusing someone of abuse. When you’re accusing your _best mate’s boyfriend_ of abuse. I never knew you to be so fucking parnaoid, Liam.”

“Having bruises on your skin is all the evidence I need, Harry,” Liam says, sounding exasperated. “Come on, mate. I’m not stupid. And I’m sorry it took me this long to confront you about it, I just -- ”

“Call my mum, I don’t care,” Harry says abruptly. Liam looks shocked, and Louis sighs. “She won’t believe you. At all. She adores Sam. She’ll probably just be offended you’d say something like that.”

Liam looks pained. “Harry.”

“Go ahead, call her. It won’t matter.”

“I’ll call the police, then,” Liam says, and Hary shrugs. 

“Yeah, okay. You do that, and then they’ll come and not do anything, and then Sam will probably kill me. Yeah, sure. You do that.”

He shouldn’t have said that, but it doesn’t matter anymore, does it. 

Liam looks horrified. “Harry, Christ.”

“Stay out of it,” Harry snaps, grabbing for the door. “Both of you. I’m fine.”

“You’re protecting him,” Louis says. “Why?”

Harry just scoffs and opens the door, leaving. Liam and Louis both call after him, but it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t fucking matter. They can’t do anything for him. And they won’t, not when Harry admitted Sam could end up killing him. And he very well could, Harry’s aware of that. He’s painfully aware of that. But he’s already in too deep to just leave, that’s fucking absurd. His whole life here revolves around Sam. He uses Sam’s money. He uses one of Sam’s cars. If he leaves, he risks his life and loses everything. He’s not fucking doing that. 

He goes home early, not caring that it’ll get him in trouble. 

-

Life goes on as normal. 

For the first week after Liam confronted him, he’s terrified. He’s anxious as shit on campus, and every night, he stares at the ceiling, waiting to see red and blue lights in the window. They don’t come, and he can never decide if he’s relieved or not. Him being more on edge causes him to become clumsier, which Sam punishes him for, and he wears his wounds to school, painfully aware every time Louis stares at him. He’s so paranoid now that someone can see that he pulls on his sleeves and collar every few seconds, constantly fidgety and nervous. 

“I’m sick of these games, Harry,” Sam snaps one night, his fingers tight in Harry’s hair, yanking him back. Harry had jumped and dropped a cup he was holding because someone knocked on the door, and Sam cussed him out quietly for being stupid before he answered the door. It was just a neighbor asking if they have a printer they could use. 

Harry just whimpers. 

The next time he has to talk to Louis, it’s for another partner project a month later. Louis’ always his partner, so he’s not particularly annoyed that they have to work together, just nervous that Louis’ going to try to be this savior-type figure that Harry doesn’t need. At first, Louis doesn’t bring it up. They go about their work like normal, and Harry’s mostly relaxed, thinking he’s not going to bring it up, when he finally does. 

“How old are you again?” Louis asks, staring down at the piece of paper Harry’s writing their answers on. He’s always the one to write. 

“Twenty-two.”

Louis nods. “I’m twenty-three. Almost twenty-four. Didn’t go to uni right away.” He’s quiet for a second before he says, “So, what? You plan on spending the rest of your life with him, then?” It’s soft, the way he says it. Concerned. It doesn’t make it any better. 

“Don’t,” Harry warns, although there’s little heat behind it.

“I’ve heard that holidays are bad times for those in domestic violence situations,” Louis continues. His voice stays soft, like he’s actually trying to help Harry rather than force him to do something. It’s a different approach than Liam took. “That true?”

Yes. Holidays are always stressful times for anyone, and those who have heightened emotions regularly only get worse. And since Sam will be home from work for a few days and Harry will be home from school, there are bound to be a few altercations. 

“I’ve heard the same,” is all Harry says. It’s a yes in his own way, and Louis takes it as much.

“Donny’s always nice during Christmas time,” Louis tells him. “You could come back home with me for a bit. Or with Liam. Or wherever you like that isn’t with him.”

Harry shakes his head, still not looking up from the paper. “I always stay in London. Thanks, though.”

“Could you look at me please?”

Harry does, only briefly. Louis looks far too worried about him. It makes him uncomfortable. 

“How far are you going to let him take it?” Louis whispers. “When is enough enough?”

Harry rolls his eyes because anger is easier than anything else. “You don’t even know what you’re talking about, Louis.”

“I know I’ve spent too many hours of my time listening to Liam worry about you,” he says. He sounds apologetic. “I know that our suspicions are right, judging by the way that you acted when we confronted you. I know that -- ”

“Jesus, Louis, okay,” Harry interrupts, shaking his head. He’s forcing his mind to remain carefully blank, far too fragile right now to take in what Louis’ saying. If he starts to process it, he might consider taking the help, and that’d be reckless. Dangerous. He can’t get in and out of Sam’s life quickly, and he doesn’t want to die in the process. 

Louis lets it be for the rest of the class, and Harry’s grateful. 

-

Harry doesn’t believe in fate or warnings from the universe or anything like that. He doesn’t believe that everything happens for a reason. And he knows that the only reason Sam gets particularly violent on Christmas Eve is because he does every year, but as Harry’s sitting huddled against the corner of the couch, his head pounding as he clutches onto his bleeding hand, he can’t stop thinking about the conversation he had with Louis. He feels cursed, almost, like Louis putting that out into the universe caused Sam to slam a wine bottle against the table, right next to his hand, the shards cutting his cheek and hand. As Harry crouched down to clean up the glass, Sam -- he kneed him in the back of the head, hard, and he’s still burning with humiliation. 

He considers reaching out to someone for help. Genuinely, he considers it. Louis or Liam would be right over, if it wasn’t for the fact that they’re both home with their families. There’s nobody else that Harry would feel comfortable involving, so he sits there, petrified and hurt, alone. Sam’s asleep in their room, and as stupid as it sounds, Harry’s only wish for Christmas is that he stays asleep so Harry can try to enjoy what’s left of Christmas Eve. 

Louis texts him the following morning. Liam does, too, but for some reason, Louis’ text feels more important. Liam’s text just feels like a generic holiday greeting while Louis’ feels like he’s checking in on him, even though the message is roughly the same. For some reason, he feels more inclined to push Liam away than he does with Louis. With Liam, Harry feels even more stupid and ashamed and vulnerable. Liam has had a front-row seat to Harry’s downfall and Louis was just a background character. He didn’t see Harry at the top of the world, giddy and in love with life, and watch him slowly lose his passion for everything. He hurt Liam when he pulled away from all his friends; Louis was never someone close enough to hurt. It feels different with Louis, like he’s not disappointing him. It’s less embarrassing, for some reason. 

_Happy happy christmas x_ Louis sent, and Harry stares down at it for a long time. The longer he looks at it, the more he convinces himself that there’s an untyped question mark at the end of it. Maybe Louis isn’t actually checking in, maybe he’s just being nice, but. He’s known of Louis for years, and this is the first time he’s ever wished him a happy Christmas. 

_You too mate :)_ , Harry sends back. Sam’s next to him in bed, snoring softly, with an arm hooked over Harry’s hips. It’s like a reminder that he’s trapped. 

Another text from Louis. _Hope London is treating you nice?_

And that’s definitely code, Harry’s not just making this up in his head to try and convince himself people other than Sam care about him. He presses his fingers against the cut on his cheek, trying not to cry, before replying. _Same as every year._

It feels pathetic the longer he stares at it. What is Louis supposed to say to him? It’s too much pressure to put on one person. 

_Sometimes big city life isn’t all it’s cracked up to be._

Harry can’t quite figure out what that’s supposed to mean, and before he can work it out, Sam stirs next to him, so Harry puts his phone down and waits for him to wake up completely. 

It isn’t a happy Christmas. 

-

There are phases where Sam is hardly violent, and there are phases where there isn’t a day that goes by where Harry isn’t marked up in some way. As the years pass, Harry swears the sweeter months are dwindling and the scary ones are growing in number. When they’re in a bad patch, it’s harder to remember why he stays. 

Two days ago, Sam made him bleed again during sex. It wasn’t as severe, and it’s stopped by now. Yesterday, he slammed his fingers in a drawer while Harry cooked dinner, which Harry didn’t believe was an accident at all, no matter how apologetic Sam acted. This morning, he grabbed him by the hair and wouldn’t let him go until Harry begged good enough. 

Harry’s exhausted, and he needs a break. He needs someone to talk to. It shouldn’t be Louis, but he knows for a fact that Liam has class right now. It’s not a day where Harry has a class with Louis, so he decides to text him instead. 

_Hey. I’m on campus. Are you busy?_

As he waits for a response, he works himself into a fit of tears. He feels so stupid. Louis hardly knows him, and he’s having to deal with all this bullshit. Maybe he should just text Liam to see if he can leave class early or something. And he could, but he doesn’t want to talk about this with someone who knows him well. It doesn’t -- Liam threatened to call the cops on him. Liam also knows where he lives and who Sam is and where he works. Louis doesn’t, and while he could easily find out, it still soothes Harry. With Louis, the conversation can only go as far as Harry wants it to. There’s a wedge of unfamiliarity between them that Harry appreciates. 

_Just in my dorm. It’s in the same building as Liam’s, I’ll be in the lobby to card you in._

Harry sends back an _ok_ before getting out of his car and heading to the direction of the building. He feels so stupid. So stupid. But Louis didn’t blow him off, and he could have, and that means something. Maybe. He thinks. 

Louis is waiting for him by the door, and Harry tries not to look as insecure as he feels. He has his arms wrapped around his middle and he’s hunched in on himself a little, so he tries to stand up straighter while he offers Louis a polite smile. 

“You okay?” Louis asks cautiously, and Harry nods. 

“I just need to talk to someone. I know it’s -- I’m sorry.”

Louis furrows his eyebrows. “Don’t be sorry for reaching out,” he says sternly. “I want to help you. I want to be here for you, in any way you’ll let me. Just because we aren’t super close doesn’t mean I won’t do everything in my power to help you when you ask for it.”

“But I could’ve texted Liam,” Harry says, even though he knows he’s being difficult for no reason. He’s the one who asked for his help, for fuck’s sake. “I should’ve.”

“Liam’s in class, and he also managed to freak you out within two minutes of speaking to you about this. I’m going to try my best not to do that.” He gives him a half-smile. “Liam really cares about you, and he’s been planning on confronting you for awhile and the words got jumbled in his head. He didn’t mean to get so intense so quick.”

“He looks up to Sam,” Harry whispers, and immediately, Louis shakes his head. 

“He used to, but not anymore.”

Harry doesn’t know what to say. Not just right now, either; everything he wanted to talk about has gotten lost in his head now. He’s not sure what he came here for. He should be in class, but here he is, wasting both his and Louis’ time. 

“Come on,” Louis says, motioning for Harry to follow after him. Harry does, only because he doesn’t have the guts to turn around and leave. They reach Louis’ dorm, and as he unlocks the door, he says that his roommate is out so they have some privacy. Harry nods wordlessly, and after Louis pushes open the door, he sits at the desk chair and stares at the ground. Louis doesn’t speak first, so it’s on Harry. 

“I don’t know why I came here,” Harry says quietly. He reaches up to push his hair off his face and sighs, crossing his arms over his stomach again. 

“Yeah, you do,” Louis says. When Harry glances at him, confused, he looks sympathetic. And he’s right, he is. Harry didn’t just forget that he decided on his way over that he wants to leave Sam. That’s not something you just forget, but it’s -- more complicated than that. More dangerous than that. He doesn’t know what to do.

“I’ve been with him for almost five years, Louis.”

“Would be a shame to let it become longer than that.”

Louis’ quick to respond, like he somehow knows what Harry’s going to say before he says it, or maybe like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Maybe it is, Harry doesn’t know. 

“He’s my best friend,” Harry whispers, and his voice cracks. He rolls his eyes at himself, at the tears in his eyes, and continues glaring a hole into the carpet. 

“ _Liam’s_ your best friend.”

Harry shakes his head. “Not really. We barely talk to each other anymore.”

“Because of Sam,” Louis says, sounding confused. “Harry, it’s not,” he sighs loudly. “If it feels like Sam is the only person in the world that you have, it’s because Sam made it that way. He’s lying to you if he tells you that.”

“I know,” he mumbles, because he does know that. He knows that he’s been manipulated into thinking things that aren’t true, about himself and the world, but sometimes it’s like he forgets. Almost like the part that knows better and the part that doesn’t don’t blend together in his head. 

“Do you want to leave him?” Louis asks softly, like he won’t judge no matter what the answer is. 

“I don’t know,” he says. And it scares him, it _petrifies_ him, so he adds, “It’s -- I don’t want to just leave him. I couldn’t do that to him.”

“What’s the point of trying to protect someone who doesn’t protect you? He actively goes out of his way to hurt you, Harry, that’s not -- that’s abuse. Even if he loves you, even if you love him, that doesn’t mean you aren’t being abused and that you shouldn’t leave. Because you should. You deserve better than that.”

“I have an apartment with him,” Harry says, voice hard. “I live with him. He pays for the outrageous city prices that I can’t afford. He pays for everything, pretty much. I use his car, too.”

“He did that all so he can control you.”

“ _I know,_ ” Harry repeats. “But it’s working. I can’t just leave that.”

“Stay with your mum,” Louis says. “Or at Liam’s dorm. Yeah, you’ll have to try not to get caught, but you only have a semester left here. Even if you have to drain all your savings to stay here for a few more months, you can do that. It’s better than being with him.”

Harry stays quiet for a minute, trying to process this. It’s not as easy as Louis’ making it out to be. It’s a terrifying, life-altering change that Harry can’t go back on once he’s already done it. If he leaves Sam, he could never get him back, and that’s -- he used to be madly in love with him, and that hasn’t gone completely away. He cares about him. He wants the best for him. Harry abandoning him isn’t the best for him, it’s not. It can’t be. 

“I’d miss him,” he admits quietly, voice barely above a whisper.

“At first, yeah, you will.” 

Harry looks up, shocked by that. Liam would have told him that he wouldn’t, or that he shouldn’t. But Louis actually looks like he believes him, and he isn’t judging. He isn’t looking at Harry like he’s weak.

“You’ll move on from him, though,” Louis continues. “You’ll heal, at first physically and then menatlly. And eventually, you’ll realize you’re much better off without him.”

Before Harry can respond, there’s a knock on the door. 

“That’s Liam,” Louis says as he stands, looking guilty. “I texted him that you were coming over.”

Harry furrows his eyebrows, quiet hurt spreading through his chest. “Why?”

“I thought he should know. I didn’t think he’d come, but.”

Liam knocks again, so Louis goes over to the door and opens it. And Liam’s energy is immediately too much, all frantic eyes and desperate questions and pleading. 

“We can do this now,” he says. “We could -- we could go get your stuff right now, and it’ll be fine, and you’ll be done with him. Come on, Haz, we could do it.”

Louis tries to subtly tell him to relax, and it doesn’t really work. Harry already feels cornered and pressured, and he knows that Liam’s just worried. He knows that. That doesn’t mean it’s not completely overwhelming. 

Harry makes an excuse to leave, and neither of them try to stop him. He leaves with Liam looking heartbroken and guilty. He sits in his car until class is over, thinking and thinking and thinking and thinking. 

By the time he gets home, he still doesn’t have an answer for himself. 

-

Weeks pass, and Harry still doesn’t know what he’s going to do. He’s had to block Liam’s number because he keeps texting him so often and he doesn’t want Sam getting suspicious. The next time he saw Louis -- they still have a class together this semester -- he told him that it wasn’t cool to do that, but he didn’t care. He had to protect himself. 

Sam continues to hurt him, degrade him, break him. And every time it happens, Harry swears to himself that he’ll wait for Sam to go to sleep and then he’ll leave, and he never does. He’s far too scared and stuck in his normal. He might not like it, but dealing with his life with Sam is predictable and normal to him; leaving will introduce him to an entirely different world that he isn’t ready for. 

It’s two months after he talked to Louis at his dorm that Sam officially goes too far. Somehow, after everything, there are still lines that haven’t been crossed yet. Somehow, Sam crosses them all tonight. 

It’s only been twenty minutes since it all happened, and Harry can only remember it in flashes. 

Sam came home from work later than normal, and he was drunk. He wasn’t angry, not yet. The anger didn’t come until Harry told him he had to study for a test so he’d be to bed later. Sam yanked him out of the dining room chair and Harry fell back, all his weight crashing down onto his left wrist. It’s broken, there’s no way that it isn’t. The pain radiated throughout his whole body and he couldn’t help but sob, and Sam only got angrier. 

It starts to get blurry after Sam grabbed him off the floor by his left wrist, the wrist that he just broke, and dragged him to bed. Harry was screaming, he remembers screaming from the pain, and he tried to fight Sam off, he did, but it just -- it happened so fast, and before Harry could even catch up with what was happening, he was pushed down into bed, stomach first, with his wrists pinned behind his back by one of Sam’s hands. The pain was nauseating; the angle Sam had his wrist sent bright, searing flashes of pain up his wrist every single second, and the more he tried to fight, the worse it hurt. 

Harry’s bleeding again. He hopes it doesn’t leak through his pants and onto the car seat. Sam would hate that, he thinks numbly. 

After Sam finished inside of Harry, he spit on him and said he was going back out with his friends so Harry could study. He was so angry. And Harry waited for the door to close before he leapt out of bed, shoved as many things as he could inside of his backpack and one of Sam’s gym bags, grabbed the car keys, and left. 

He left. Sam’s not back yet, so he could go back home and pretend like he hadn’t, but he’s not sure he wants to do that. He’s sitting in his car in a parking lot of a shopping center. The pain and hysteria was too much to drive with at the time, so he had to stop. He had to collect his thoughts. But it’s been ten minutes since he stopped driving, and he hasn’t managed to think anything coherent yet. 

He thinks about calling Louis, but that’s -- he’s feeling incredibly vulnerable right now, and Louis’ been good to him but he isn’t sure he wants him to see him like this. Liam has already seen him like this. Kind of. The last time he had shown up at Liam’s, there was no visible signs of injury. Now, Harry has a swollen, bruising wrist, scratches on his forearm and a black eye. 

He quickly does a double take in the mirror. Shit, he does have a black eye, he doesn’t -- fuck. He doesn’t remember getting hit in the face. How has he already forgotten?

Setting his head back on the headrest, he wishes he could call his mum and talk to her without having to explain anything. He can’t, though, so he calls Liam instead. 

Liam answers on the third ring, and he sounds worried already. “Haz? You alright?”

Harry swallows thickly, counts to ten, swallows again. He opens his eyes and stares at the ceiling of his -- _Sam’s_ \-- car before speaking. “I need somewhere to stay tonight,” he says, and his voice comes out all types of wrong. It’s hoarse and shaky and small. He sounds scared, even to his own ears. “I don’t -- could I stay with you? I’m sorry. I don’t -- I don’t -- I’m sorry. I don’t know what happened.”

“Mate,” Liam says sadly, and Harry squeezes his eyes shut again, which results in his swelling eye ringing with hurt. 

“He just freaked out on me,” Harry blurts. “I don’t -- he usually doesn’t. . . I don’t know. I don’t even know, Liam.”

“Do you need me to pick you up? Are you safe?”

Harry shakes his head even though he’s alone. “I’m not home. I’m -- he still doesn’t know I left. I can drive myself, just -- could I please stay with you? Please?”

“Of course. Of course, H. Anytime, you know that.”

He sniffles quietly. “Is your roommate going to hate me?”

“No. Zayn’s completely passed out drunk. You won’t wake him, and even if you do, he won’t care.”

“I’m sorry.”

He feels so pathetic, like such a burden. He put himself in this situation, he should be able to get out of it on his own. He’s an adult. 

He looks out the window, and the store lights remind him of the Christmas lights of their first date. 

“Don’t be. Seriously, mate, don’t be. You haven’t done anything wrong. Just. . . calm down before you start driving, yeah? I don’t want you getting hurt.”

“Okay. I will. Thanks.”

Liam tells him everything’s going to be fine, and Harry ends the call not believing that for a second. He does, however, cling to it the entire time he drives. It’s a lie, but he’s been fed so many lies that he’s believed before, so he allows himself to believe this one, too. 

Louis’ sitting in the lobby talking with Liam, and when Harry spots them from outside the glass door, he pauses. Why is it that the two of them have designated themselves as the official leaders of this operation? Harry understands they only want to help, but when he goes to one of them, he never intends to have the other one right there, too. It doesn’t feel right. 

He enters the building anyway, with his university ID in his hand, one bag on his arm and the other on his back. He eyes them warily before showing his ID to the receptionist and she nods wordlessly before looking back at her computer. Once he turns around, Louis and Liam are both standing there, looking guilty. 

“I’m leaving,” Louis says, his hands in the air. “We were out with some friends earlier and I stuck around his room until you called. I’m not staying; I promise this wasn’t some elaborate plan for us to be together. Just -- I wanted to keep him company until you got here safe. You are safe, right?”

Harry lets out a hollow laugh. “Until Sam realizes I’ve left, sure.”

“We’ll take care of that,” Liam says, and he tugs Harry forward by his good wrist and wraps him in a hug. Harry goes willingly, too tired to care. Louis pats his back and says goodnight before leaving. As soon as he’s gone, Harry feels tears burn his eyes again and he burrows his face into Liam’s shoulder. 

“Feel so stupid, Liam.”

“You shouldn’t,” Liam whispers fiercely. “You didn’t do anything wrong. He’s the fucking idiot, okay?”

Harry doesn’t say anything to that. After about a minute, Liam pulls away from him and gives him an encouraging smile. He grabs one of Harry’s bags before putting a hand on the center of his back and pushing him forward, guiding him to his room. 

Everything feels surreal once they get to the room. Liam’s roommate is sound asleep in his bed, the covers tucked around his head as he snores loudly. There are beer cans on the floor like the boys’ night out ended here, and Liam’s bed is neatly made, like he’s been waiting to crawl into it for the night. And here Harry is, a mess, standing in the middle of it all like he fits in this life at all. 

“We can talk,” Liam says quietly. 

Harry shakes his head.

“We need to talk,” Liam amends, and Harry closes his eyes. “All I need to know tonight is if you want to go to the police or not.”

“Absolutely not,” Harry says easily. That’s -- no. That’s never been an option for him. He wouldn’t do that to Sam. Sam hasn’t. . . he’s done some wrong, but he doesn’t deserve _that_. 

“Okay. Do you want to shower?”

Harry thinks for a second before nodding. “Yeah. Please.”

Liam says he’ll grab him some pajamas while Harry just stands there, his ID still in hand. He feels so goddamn _stupid_. He still could go back home without any consequences; Sam isn’t home yet, judging by the lack of angry messages on Harry’s phone. He could go back home and forget this ever happened. 

But then again, he couldn’t forget. The bleeding will stop in a few days, and the bruises will heal in a few weeks, but his wrist will be broken for a lot longer than that. He won’t be able to forget this night for a while, no matter what. 

He showers with his eyes tightly shut, even though it hurts. He doesn’t want to discover new bruises or scratches. If the water is tinted-pink, he doesn't want to see it. His eyes stay closed and his mind stays carefully blank. He doesn’t open his eyes until he’s out of the shower and dripping onto the tiles, and when he does, he lets out a huge breath he didn’t realize he was holding and the room spins slightly. 

There’s a dark bruise already formed on his hip. He didn’t mean to see it, but he catches it in the mirror as he stretches to grab the clothes Liam got for him. 

Once he emerges from the bathroom, hair still dripping even though he squeezed it with the towel and his wrist on display since Liam only got him a t-shirt, his eyes quickly land on Liam. He’s sitting against the headboard, his computer open in front of him. He sees Harry and offers him a small smile. 

“Are you hungry?” he asks. “I can grab you something from somewhere.”

“I can get myself something. Thanks, though.”

Liam nods and watches Harry as he bends down to shuffle through his backpack to find his wallet. He doesn’t have a job, so naturally he has no money for himself aside from the money in the bank he uses for school. He grabbed two fifties out of Sam’s dresser before he left. Now, he’s thinking he should have grabbed more, but he wasn’t thinking clearly, was he. As he looks for his wallet, he keeps his left wrist resting on his thigh, mindful of it. 

He’s fingers finally grip the wallet when Liam notices his wrist. 

“Jesus, Harry,” he says. Harry doesn’t turn around, but he hears him coming closer. Harry pulls out his wallet before standing up, and Liam’s right there, grabbing for his wrist. Carefully, he looks at it, at how swollen and red it is. He gently places a hand against the skin, and it’s warm. Liam frowns. 

“I’ll take you to urgent care tomorrow,” he says, and Harry shakes his head, pulling away. 

“It’s fine.”

“It’s broken, probably,” Liam argues. “You can take yourself, I don’t have to be there if you don’t want, just -- it has to get checked out.”

“I know. Do you want anything from the food court?”

He’s trying to avoid any of this scary talk, of what happened tonight and what will happen tomorrow. Right now, all he wants is food and sleep. He desperately wants to be asleep before Sam’s frantic calls come in. 

“Maybe just a Coke,” Liam says, still frowning. 

Harry nods and leaves. He realizes as he walks throughout the building that he looks like a right mess; a black eye and bare feet and wet hair. He doesn’t particularly care, though, and neither does the lady behind the counter at the only fast food open right now, so he supposes it doesn’t really matter. 

He eats his sandwich silently, sitting in Liam’s desk chair. Once he’s finished, he stares at the papers on Liam’s desk until Liam tells him that he can sleep in his bed with him. 

“I don’t want to accidentally hurt you in the middle of the night,” Liam says worriedly as Harry shuffles in beside him. He looks down at Harry’s wrist. “I move around a lot, I don’t want to hurt you. So, like. Hit me if I do, okay? I won’t care.”

Harry gives him a small smile. “Goodnight, Liam.”

Liam smiles back. “Goodnight, H.”

Harry’s trying to make himself as small as possible, and Liam’s trying not to move at all. After what feels like twenty, maybe thirty, minutes, Liam hesitantly scoots closer, pressing himself against Harry’s back. When Harry doesn’t say anything, Liam wraps his arm around his middle and holds him tightly. 

“Thanks,” Harry whispers. It’ll probably help him sleep, actually. Sam always lays so close. “For everything,” he adds. 

Liam squeezes him. “Don’t even worry about it, mate. Just sleep well, okay?”

Harry falls asleep to the warmth of Liam’s chest and the sound of Zayn’s snores. He sleeps hard, too; there are no dreams or random wakefulness throughout the night. It’s the stress keeping him under, probably. His body’s attempt to avoid the reality of the situation. When he wakes, it’s seven hours after he fell asleep, Liam and Zayn are both gone, and Harry’s terrified to look at his phone. Sam has definitely realized Harry’s gone, and Harry’s never done this before; last time, it was different. Sam was sound asleep and woke up to an empty bed, which was normal because Harry had class. He hadn’t realized Harry actually upped and left. This time, he must know there are no other explanation. 

Harry gets out of bed, pees, eats the breakfast wrap Liam left him along with a note, and once he feels as prepared as he could possibly be, he grabs his phone. 

One-hundred and fourteen unread text messages. Fifty-fifty missed calls. Twenty voicemails. 

Harry sinks down to sit on the bed, staring at the lockscreen anxiously. Undoubtedly, Sam’s been up all night, absolutely fuming. If Harry goes back now. . . he’d be gambling a lot. There’s no way Sam would just let this go without punishment. He holds his injured wrist protectively against his stomach as he clicks to the text messages. 

They started off calm. 

1:21am. _H where are you. It’s late._

1:22am. _If you’re getting food get me some chinese_

1:24am. _Harry seriously where the fuck are you_

1:28am. _I thought you had to fucking study so bad so why are you gone in the middle of the night. Get home now and answer your goddamn phone._

It gets progressively worse from there. 

1:40am. _Why do you even fucking have a fucking phone if you don’t ever answer it_

1:42am. _If you aren’t home by two you’re going to regret it_

1:47am. _I don’t know where you think you get off doing this shit but you better get home now or i swear to god i’ll bash your fucking skull in_

That makes Harry’s head whirl. Sam is always, always, so violent when it comes to threats. Even if they’re usually just empty threats to scare him, it fucking works. Even when Sam isn’t being physically aggressive, there’s always the implication that he could be if he wanted to. 

It goes on like that all the way until seven o’clock, probably because Sam had to get to work. Based on his texts, he realized around four o’clock that Harry wasn’t coming home. 

4:11am. _You have got to be fucking joking me. Don’t get any ideas Harry._

4:14am. _You think you could handle this without me? Really?_

4:15am. _You’re going to have to crawl back home to mum and mooch of her for cash just like you’ve done with me for years. She won’t put up with it for long._

4:17am. _I don’t fucking understand. I left because YOU needed to study so fucking badly apparently. Where the fuck are you. Get home now. I’m done with these games._

4:20am. _Who the fuck is going to want some broke unemployed twink? You’re nothing Harry. You should be grateful i’ve dealt with you so fucking long._

4:22am. _You’ll never be treated as good as you were with me. Get home now and I’ll forget this ever happened._

4:30am. _Fine. I’m better off without you. You’re dead weight i’ve been lugging around for years. You’re useless anyway. Worth nothing more than a sloppy fuck._

Harry laughs quietly at that, but only to try and pretend like he isn’t so terrified. It feels like his brain is trying to convince itself that none of that hurts and Sam’s just being ridiculous because if he believes any of it, he’ll crumble completely. He’s on the verge of hysteria, he can feel it bubbling in his chest. 

4:36am. _Harry. Love. Sweetheart. Just call me back. We can figure this out._

A heat rips across his chest. That’s -- no. He’s trying to manipulate him. He’s trying to lure him back in so he can hurt him. Harry won’t fall for it, he _won’t._

4:40am. _I can’t do this without you. You’re my entire world harry. I’ve loved you for so long and i know i can be a dick but you know i don’t mean it. We can figure this out. Just tell me what you need and i can give it to you. Come home right now and i’ll kiss you and love you and cuddle you in bed and give you anything you want. Anything sweetheart._

That goes on for about an hour. Harry reads the texts over and over and over, the _I love you_ ’s and _I’m sorry’_ s and the threats of suicide. Harry sobs sharply when he reads those texts. In graphic detail, Sam says he’s going to drive his car off the side of the road or kill himself in the kitchen or jump off a bridge. _You won’t ever know what happened to me, H. I’d be missing forever. Don’t make me do something I’ll regret._

The voicemails are even worse. Harry can only listen to three: one from earlier in the morning, one from later, and one from just before he must’ve left from work. 

The first is incredibly violent and makes Harry feel sick with fear. Sam says he’s got a kitchen knife out and he’s waiting for him to get home so he can stab him to death until he’s nothing but bloodied flesh. _Even your own mum wouldn’t be able to recognize you._

The second is sobbing and pleas and more threats of harming himself. It’s startling, because maybe -- those are real tears. They are. Sam sounds genuinely torn up. If he’s actually crying, then he must desperately love Harry and Harry’s hurting him so profoundly on purpose. _I can’t live without you. I don’t want to. Call me back so I can just say goodbye to you before I die._

The third message he listens to, the last one sent, is kept short. The tears are gone, the anger is back, and Harry forgets the urge he got from the last message to call him back and apologize. The third voice message just says, _You better hope I don’t find you._

Harry pulls the phone away from his ear quickly, and when that doesn’t rid the terror, he tosses it back onto the side table. He has class today in an hour, but he can’t even think about that right now. Instead, he slides back under the covers and tries his hardest to go back to sleep. He doesn’t want to be awake right now -- he _can’t_ be awake right now. It’s all too much, he’s far too frayed, this is --

He’s supposed to be sleeping. He clenches his eyes shut tight even though it hurts, and when he still can’t fall asleep, he pulls the covers over his head. It’s suffocating and hot under them, but he tells himself that he’ll fall asleep like this. He’ll fall asleep and he’ll wake up with things magically in place. 

He manages to stay underneath the blanket for less than five minutes before he has to come back out for air. Everything is too much right now; his wrist is throbbing and he needs to get it treated and he needs to figure out what he’s going to do and he needs to make up his mind up about Sam and -- and what happens to university if he can’t live with Sam anymore, he only has a semester left, and he should probably call his mum but he’s far too embarrassed to and he’ll -- how could he ever admit to her what happened? He couldn’t do that to her. Above it all, on a constant loop in the back of his head, is Sam’s voice. _You better hope I don’t find you._

Convincing himself to leave this room will probably be difficult with a threat like that looming over him. 

Apparently, that’s not realistic. Apparently, him blowing off his classes and ignoring his wrist for four days and only leaving Liam’s room to grab food is concerning. Liam understands, at first. He doesn’t want to rush him, but on the fourth day of him coming home to find Harry exactly where he left him, Liam sighs. 

“You need to go to class, mate,” Liam says, frowning. “If you can’t, if you aren’t ready for it, then you need to think about taking a leave of absence so you don’t fuck up your degree last minute. Maybe. . . maybe that wouldn’t be bad, you know? Maybe you could take a sick leave and go home to be with your mum for a bit.”

He knows Liam’s right, but he also knows that he wants to stay in school so he can finish his degree now. If he leaves -- university and London -- he’s scared he won’t ever come back. He just has to push through these next few months and then figure out what to do next.

There’s a part of him that keeps telling him to go back to Sam, to just go back home and deal with what happens and smooth it over from there. That part of him is huge, bigger than he’d like to admit. It’s embarrassing. What would Louis and Liam and _Zayn,_ because he’s pretty sure he knows what happened now, all think of him if he just went back? 

As the time grows between when he left and the present, he becomes progressively more distressed at the idea that Sam wouldn’t take him back. He’s nothing without Sam here, and that’s not even one of Sam’s lies. Harry’s life in London starting here because of Sam; it’d make sense if it ended with him, too. 

He doesn’t dare tell anyone that he’s thinking that. Liam wouldn’t understand, anyway. 

“Harry,” Liam says, exasperated, when Harry doesn’t say anything. Harry nods a little uselessly before clearing his throat.

“I’ll go to an urgent care clinic tonight,” he says, already hating the idea. “I’ll -- yeah. I’ll go in a bit. Just. . . ” he trails off with a flimsy wave of his hand. He’s sitting at Liam’s desk again, where he usually is during the days, and Liam walks closer, leaning against the side of the desk. 

“You seem off today,” he says, concerned. “Like, more off than usual. I’m not. . . I know this is hard, and I’m not rushing you to cope with this, just. I feel like you should be lightening up a bit.”

After the first day, Harry stopped listening to the voice mails and reading the texts. It was too hard and made him too anxious. But this morning, something came over him and he sat there for an hour reading all the messages and listening to the voice mails. His inbox got too full, so he deleted some of the voice messages, and he got a notification about twenty minutes ago that it was too full again. He’s almost too scared to be on his phone at all, because accidentally accepting a call from Sam would be the worst case possible. And he can’t block his number, he can’t -- well, he could. He could. But Sam would be so _mad_.

“I’m okay.” He offers him a small smile before saying he’s going to shower. 

Later on, as he’s driving to the clinic, his nerves are completely shot. Since this doctor visit is too similar to the last for his liking, he’s overwhelmed to begin with. To make it worse, his phone is in the center console and it’s lit up with a call from Sam three times since he’s been driving. It’s a little after six, so Sam will just have been getting off of work. He’s probably either on his way home or has just arrived. 

He wants to answer. So badly. He doesn’t even know _why,_ if it’s to hear him angry to reassure himself that he made the right decision or hear him upset to guilt himself back home or to just talk to him because he misses him. 

God, he misses him. 

The wait at the urgent care is thirty-seven minutes, and Sam calls him fourteen times during it. Harry’s stares at his phone, at how it lights up with a call, notifies him that he’s missed it, goes dim, and then lights up again to notify him he has a new voice memo. 

It’s mesmerizing, almost. It also makes his head hurt from staring at the screen so intensely. 

When Harry’s name is called, he carefully slides his phone into his coat pocket and follows the nurse to the back. She takes his height, weight, blood pressure. Asks him a few questions. Takes him to the exam room, where he waits for another ten minutes. He doesn’t take out his phone, but he can imagine the ringing, the missed call, the notification, over and over and over again. 

The doctor asks how he hurt himself. She laughs when Harry says that he was drunk and fell off a bar stool, and she jokes with him about his black eye. It’s almost funny to him, how easily she goes along with it. Her poking fun at the bruise around his eye doesn’t even hurt, just rolls right off him. 

As Harry had expected, his wrist is broken. It’s a clean break, she tells him, like that makes it any better. Like that makes what Sam did to him hurt less. He’s never been claustrophobic in any sense of the word before, but as she wraps his forearm and thumb in a dark blue cast, he feels trapped. It takes everything inside him not to squirm away from her touch, and once the cast is officially done, he wraps his right hand around it and resists the urge to pull on it. That’d hurt, probably, so he doesn’t know why he feels the need to do it. 

“No more drinking, you hear me?” she says teasingly as Harry leaves, and he smiles politely at her before turning the corner and heading to the receptionist’s desk. He pays for the visit with Sam’s credit card, holding his breath until it goes through. 

He walks to the car slowly, imagining his phone still ringing in his pocket. Once he gets in, he turns on the air, pulls out his phone, and waits. For what, he doesn’t know. 

Relief hits him when his phone lights up with yet another call from Sam. That means he still cares, that he’s still trying, that he’d probably take Harry back if he wanted to come home. That must mean he still loves him, right? It’s -- Sam wouldn’t waste his time on him if he didn’t care for him still. 

If Sam loves him like Harry thinks he does, maybe they can work through this. 

The call ends again. It takes ten minutes for another to come through, and maybe it’s because he was beginning to panic a bit since it was taking Sam longer than normal to call back, or maybe it’s because he’s a fucking idiot, that Harry quickly accepts the call. 

He regrets it immensely as soon as he’s done it. For a moment, he keeps the phone at an arm’s length away, mind whirling as he hears Sam’s faint voice. This is stupid, he’s so stupid, he should hang up, he should --

He raises the phone to his ear, closes his eyes, and sets his head back. 

“Harry,” Sam is saying. “Harry, where are you? Tell me where you are.”

Instead of responding, Harry silently replays those words in his head. It feels like this is the first time he’s heard Sam’s voice in ages, even though he listened to the voice mails only this morning. This feels different, somehow. This makes his chest ache with how much he misses him. 

“Can you hear me?” Sam asks, and it’s -- he sounds so bloody insecure and vulnerable, which is the opposite of how he usually sounds. Harry’s properly scared him, and that’s terrifying. He doesn’t want to hurt Sam, he just wants Sam to stop hurting him. 

Maybe leaving like that wasn’t very fair. 

“Yeah,” Harry answers, and that’s all.

Sam lets out a sigh of relief. “God, baby. I’ve missed you. Where are you?”

“At home,” Harry lies. If Sam thinks he can’t get to him, maybe the anger will fizzle and they can talk about this. About what comes next for them. “With my mum.”

“That’s not true. I just got a notification that you used my credit card at a clinic in London. Why are you lying to me?”

Harry didn’t fucking think about that. He’s so fucking stupid sometimes, Jesus Christ. He’s paid for everything else using cash so far, so at least Sam has no way of knowing for certain that Harry’s staying on campus. 

“Why are you doing this, Harry? Why are you doing this to us?”

Grief and guilt and sorrow all clash in his head at once, forcing him to take a moment to get his thoughts together. No, he’s not doing anything. _Sam_ did this. Harry didn’t want to have to leave, he was practically driven out, and it’s. . . but if that’s true, then why does Sam sound so bloody sad? Why does he sound like he really believes that Harry’s the one in the wrong here? Maybe he is. All the time, Sam doesn’t realize he’s done something wrong, so maybe that’s what’s happening to Harry. 

“You broke my wrist,” Harry says, almost defensively. 

“No, I didn’t.”

Harry furrows his eyebrows and opens his eyes to stare at the ceiling of the car. “Yeah, you did. I literally just got back from the clinic and it's in a cast now.”

“I didn’t break it. You fell, Harry. What are you -- why do you blame me for everything?”

“You _pushed_ me,” Harry snaps, frantic. That’s -- Harry didn’t just make that up, he was pushed and he fell back and he hurt his wrist. He wouldn’t have gotten hurt if Sam didn’t fucking hurt him. 

Sam scoffs. “Is that why you left? You think I broke your wrist? Harry, Jesus. Get home. I didn’t fucking hurt you. Stop being paranoid.”

“That is not the only way you hurt me,” Harry seethes. That’s not _fair._ Sam can’t just discount what happened, can’t just change the story because he didn’t like the result. 

“What else do you think I did to you?” Sam asks. “Pray tell.”

He doesn’t think Harry will say it, and if he doesn’t say it, then it isn’t real. He doesn’t think Harry will say it, and neither does Harry. He’s never said those words out loud; he’s barely even let himself think them.

“I’m listening,” Sam prompts impatiently. When Harry doesn’t say anything, too stressed to build the courage to say it, Sam sighs. “See, H? This is what I mean. It was a stressful night and you got upset. That’s okay. But you need to come home now.”

“You _hurt_ me.”

“I barely touched you.”

“You fucking forced yourself on me, Sam,” Harry says, although the anger gets muddled in panic. He sounds hysterical, a bit, which is probably exactly what Sam wants to hear. “You didn’t -- you _hurt_ me.”

“Harry,” Sam says, sighing. “Come on. Really? That’s the best you have?”

“You hurt me,” he repeats, far too scared to say what it really was. “I didn’t want to, Sam, and I told you that, and you didn’t care, and you -- ”

“Jesus Christ, sweetheart, who the fuck have you been talking to?”

Harry stays silent, unsure of what he means. 

“I mean it,” Sam continues. “Who has been telling you all this bullshit? I’m your _boyfriend_. I didn’t fucking rape you.”

That word makes Harry’s head spin and his stomach roll. That’s -- no. Well, yes, that is what it was. By definition, that’s what happened.

“Come on, H. You’re a big boy. A _man_. We had sex. Don’t pretend it was anything more than that.”

Harry feels so, so stupid. “It hurt,” he says quietly. 

“Are you going to act like that’s not what you like?”

“It _isn’_ t, that’s -- what are you -- ”

Sam lets out a drawn out sigh. “I’m not going to entertain this, Harry. I don’t know how you’ve gotten everything so twisted in your head, but that’s not true.”

“But it _is_.”

“Let’s say it is,” Sam says. “Let’s say that’s what happened. Does it even matter? You’re a man. A grown adult. You were sober. I’m your long-term boyfriend. Now tell me, Harry, would anyone believe you?”

Harry stays silent, tears and humiliation burning his eyes. 

“Exactly. Nobody would. So even if it happened, it didn’t happen. So what’s the point of dwelling on it?”

“Liam would believe me,” Harry tries, voice all wobbly. It was the wrong thing to say, and he realizes it just after he’s said it. Now Sam will think he’s staying with Liam, which he is. God, Sam gets in his head and makes everything chaotic. Everything feels so much scarier and intense with Sam, and that’s. . . maybe Sam’s right, then. Maybe he does think things are worse than they really are. 

“Liam, huh?” He laughs bitterly. “Liam, the dorky kid who looks at me like he worships the ground I walk on, that’s who you are staying with? Really?”

“He’s my best friend.”

“Okay. Sure, tell him your fairy tale story then. Hope it’s not too embarrassing for you when he laughs in your face.”

Sam’s threatened by the idea of Harry telling somebody about what really happened, it’s so obvious, so fucking obvious. And Harry knows that, but the same words that led him to realize that are the same words that are currently locking in the fact that he’ll never tell Liam about what happened. Sam knows how to hurt him, how to screw with his head. How do you protect yourself from someone who basically lives inside your head?

Not answering this call is probably the first step, but he already cocked that up, didn’t he.

“Come home,” Sam says tiredly. “Come home, Harry.”

Finally, tears pour out of his eyes. “I can’t,” he says, sniffling. “I -- Sam, I can’t.”

“So this it, then?”

“ _No_ ,” Harry blurts out, and he doesn’t regret it. He’s desperate. “No, no, I don’t -- I think we just need a break, I think -- ” he feels dizzy, so he closes his eyes. “I think we just need a break.”

“Then maybe you should consider taking a break from my car and money, too.”

Harry doesn’t respond to that. 

“Do you still love me?” Sam asks after a second, and Harry feels breathless with how quickly he responds. 

“Yes, of course. Of course.”

“Why?”

Harry falters. “Why?”

“Tell me. Why do you still love me?”

For a few seconds, Harry struggles to get the words out, shame and embarrassment making his brain blurry. He doesn’t have to answer that. He could hang up right now and it would be fine. But still, he finds himself forcing himself to respond. 

“Because you take care of me,” he says slowly. “You -- you were my first boyfriend. You moved me to London. You,” his voice cracks, “you love me too, I think.”

“I do. So much, sweetheart. So come home.”

“I can’t. Not right now.”

“When, then?”

Harry sniffles. He’s so tired. “I don’t know.”

“The end of this week, then,” Sam decides. “If you aren’t home by Sunday. . . that gives you four days to figure your shit out. So come home by then, or you won’t ever be welcomed back.”

Before Harry can respond, Sam hangs up on him and the line goes dead.

It’s smart, pressuring him with a deadline. It’s a sure way to get Harry back, because that’s -- knowing that it’s a possibility that he won’t be able to come back and knowing for sure that he can’t come back after a certain amount of time are very different things. Sam is so good at this, at manipulating him and pressuring him, that right now, Harry can’t even be mad at himself for wanting to go back. He can’t. By giving him a deadline, Sam has effectively taken away Harry’s choice. It feels like the only option at this point, going back home. 

He’s not mad at himself right now for getting himself here, but he is mad at himself for being so weak. Other people would have been able to see through Sam’s lies a long ago. Other people like Liam and Louis and Nick wouldn’t have let themselves be rushed into moving to an entirely different city, away from everything they knew. So maybe Liam does think he’s stupid, because Harry sure does. 

When he gets back to the dorm, he’s feeling particularly frail and in need of space, so he almost cries when he opens the door and Louis’ sitting on Zayn’s bed, stretched out as he talks to Liam. It’s so fucking irritiatng. Not Louis, just. He’s always around, whether it be physically or in the stories Liam tells him. Harry used to be Liam’s best friend, and now here’s Louis. It makes sense, kind of. Their personalities blend together better than Harry and Liam’s do, and it’s not like Harry treated him very kindly, so it makes sense that he’s been replaced. 

“Hi,” Harry says, kind of awkwardly. He shuts the door behind him and sits at Liam’s desk without looking at either of them. He grabs his laptop and powers it up; to block them out, he can just watch Netflix or something. He doesn’t want to be part of the conversation. Maybe it’s not polite, but right now Harry is frantically trying to prevent himself from giving in and going home and he doesn’t need anything else on his plate. 

Someone says something, and it takes Harry a second to realize the question was meant for him. 

“So it is broken?” Liam asked. 

Harry nods without looking at him. “Yeah. It’s, um. She said it’s a clean break, so that’s good I guess.”

“The blue looks sick,” Louis says. 

“Thanks.”

Although he might be being rude, he’s comfortable by the fact that Liam and Louis both know he’s going through something difficult. They probably won’t hold it against him and will give him his space. At least, that’s what he hoped for. Instead, Liam says, “How was talking to Sam, then?”

Harry freezes, his whole face going hot. He’s thankful he’s not looking at them so they can’t see his face and he can’t see theirs. The question gets him unreasonably worked up, and he feels judged and upset and a lot like he did whenever Sam said something mean to him. 

“How do you know that?” he asks carefully. 

“He texted me with all sorts of threats for letting you stay with me.”

Harry closes his eyes, and all he says is, “Oh.” He doesn’t remember them exchanging numbers, but it was probably stupid to assume that they hadn’t. Liam probably grabbed his number as a means to network or something. 

“He said you’re coming back Sunday,” Liam continues. “I told him there was absolutely no way that was going to him.”

“Liam,” Louis says quietly. Harry doesn’t know what it’s supposed to mean. All he knows is tears shouldn’t be so quick to flood his eyes all the time, and that he feels incredibly stupid and small. 

“Are you seriously thinking of going back?” Liam asks, probably taking Harry’s silence as an admission of guilt. 

Harry presses his fingers to his eyes, and the edge of his cast bumps into the bruised skin. “I don’t know,” he admits quietly, so quietly. 

“You have got to be kidding me,” Liam snaps, and it’s hot and angry and sends fear down Harry’s spine even though he knows he has no reason to fear Liam. “Harry, you cannot go back. I won’t let you.”

“Liam,” Louis repeats, harsher this time. 

Liam ignores him. “Mate, you _left._ You did the hard part, okay? Everything from here and out is easy, you can’t -- you can’t just go back to him. You can’t.”

Harry’s officially crying right now, so he doesn’t respond. He doesn’t want them to know. And he’s trying not to sniffle so they can’t tell, but it’s hard. Liam’s wrong. Leaving was maybe the hardest part, but absolutely nothing about the after is easy. Going back is what’s easy, and if Liam doesn’t understand that, then maybe Harry came to the wrong person for help. 

“He hurt you,” Liam continues, like Harry doesn’t know that. “He used you, and he took advantage of you, and he -- ”

“Don’t you think I fucking know that?” he snaps, pulling his hands from his face. His voice reveals that he’s crying, but he doesn’t care. 

“Then why would you go back?” Liam asks, and it’s a fair question, it is. The way he says it, though, is judgmental and exasperated, like Harry’s being simpleminded. Maybe Liam’s just overwhelmed, too, and maybe he doesn’t mean to be so harsh. He is, though, and Harry doesn’t have it in him right now to be so understanding. 

“ _Harry,_ ” Liam says, demanding an answer, and before Harry absolutely explodes on him, Louis intervenes. 

“He’s got to make the decision himself,” Louis hisses quietly, like Harry won’t be able to hear. “You can’t force him into anything. Don’t be like that, Liam.”

Liam scoffs. “A few months ago he said Sam could kill him, and now he wants -- ”

Harry stands quickly, then, grabs his backpack and leaves. It’s probably dramatic and rude, yet Harry doesn’t really fucking care. He doesn’t need someone else explaining his own trauma to him. He knows that Sam’s abusive; out of everyone, he knows that best. And maybe Liam can’t comprehend why that isn’t enough to make him want to stay away, and maybe that’s fair, but Harry’s not going to waste his breath trying to explain it to him when clearly he thinks he’s just being an idiot. It’s ironic, though, because Liam demanding that he stays is making Harry want to run back home right now. 

Nobody comes after him, which is fine. He didn’t expect anyone to. He leaves the building again, ignoring that it’s probably not smart to be going in and out of the building so often when he doesn’t live here, and walks for a while. Campus is pretty big, so he puts in his ear buds and walks around, trying to calm himself down. 

He can’t not go back to Sam’s. Can he? It’s not realistic. Unless Harry really does just want to go back home to live with his mum after university, which. . . that’s not a bad thing. He loves his mum and wouldn’t mind living with her again, just -- he’d have to explain to her why he’s not with Sam, which isn’t a conversation he’s willing to have with her. Going back to Sam will give him normalcy, certainty, routine. Love, intimacy. Financial security and a car. Going back with Sam would be so _easy_ , is the thing. 

Maybe he can go back, finish up university, and then leave for good. The longer he thinks on it, though, the more certain he is that he wouldn’t have the guts to leave again. 

So maybe he should just drop out of university, go back home now, and create a life for himself in Holmes Chapel. Maybe that’s what his next move should be. He could always finish his degree closer to home, and even if his credits get messed up, it wouldn’t be the end of the world. He’d miss London, yes, and he’d miss his friends, but maybe it’s okay. Maybe he can figure it out. 

He stays out for a while, eventually finding a table to sit at. He just sits there, staring at his surroundings. Sam keeps texting him, and so are Liam and Louis now, so he can’t go on his phone without being entirely stressed out. He was going to text Liam back to tell him that he wasn’t going back to Sam’s tonight, but before he could, Liam said that he found his keys so he already knew that Harry didn’t leave campus. That’s the only peace of mind Harry wants to give him right now. 

At eleven, three hours after he left, he’s absolutely freezing and contemplating going back to the dorm. He didn’t mean to be gone this long, anyway. It’s dark outside, but there are lights, so he should be safe enough walking back. He’s almost convinced himself to get up when feet appear in his vision. He looks up, and Louis is standing there, smiling at him sadly. 

“It’s fucking cold out here,” he says, and Harry just nods. He’s back to feeling like a complete idiot when Louis takes off his coat and hands it to him. Nobody should be taking care of him except himself. He takes the jacket anyway, and putting in on with his cast is a bit difficult, but he manages. 

“Thanks,” he mumbles, pulling the coat shut over his torso. He feels instantly warmer, and he rests his cheek on his shoulder, against the squishy fabric. 

“Can I sit?”

Harry looks at him, a bit surprised, before nodding. After Louis sits down across from him, they don’t talk for a while. Harry occupies himself by tracing the pattern on the table, and Louis stares out at the sky, his arms wrapped close to his body. He must be cold, since Harry stole his jacket, and he should probably say they can go home, but he doesn’t want to talk. 

After about fifteen minutes, Louis says, while still looking at the sky, “You know, my mum, like. She’s a strong lady. A very, very strong person. Loyal and protective and stubborn. She’s got a good intuition, too, so, like. . . My dad, my birth dad, was a bit of a jerk. I’ve never met him, so I don’t really know much about him, but my mum says he wasn’t a very good person. Rude and dismissive and mean. He wasn’t -- I don’t think he was abusive, but he was a jerk, and my mum stood by his side for a long time. If she didn’t have kids, she probably would have stayed with him, even though she didn’t really want to and it wouldn’t have been dangerous for her to leave. Sometimes. . . sometimes it’s scary, not knowing what comes after a relationship. Especially when you were with the person for so long.”

At first, Harry doesn’t really get why Louis’ telling him this. _Oh, you know, my mum was in a rocky relationship twenty years ago and that somehow gives me an understanding of what you’re going through now._ He realizes, though, as he replays the words in his head, that Louis’ trying to tell him in his own way that it’s okay that Harry doesn’t know what to do next. That if even his mum -- and Harry knows how much he cares about his mum; out of all their conversations, his mum was brought up in about half of them, probably -- was stuck, as strong as she is, then it’s not shameful for Harry to be stuck, too. And it’s the first time that someone has acknowledged that leaving Sam isn’t this weight off his back, which Harry greatly appreciates. It’s not that simple. 

“Liam didn’t mean to be so harsh about it,” Louis tells him quietly. “He’s trying to understand, but he doesn’t really get it. I mean, I don’t even think I really get it either. But I know. . . I know Sam’s probably completely destroyed your self-esteem, and that not feeling like you can rely on yourself to figure things out is probably really messing with your decision-making.”

“He does everything for me,” Harry says, voice barely audible. Liam’s made him worried that he’s been ridiculous for not wanting to let go of what Sam can give him. When Louis doesn’t immediately shut him down, Harry glances up briefly, and he’s still looking at the sky. It gives Harry the courage to say, “I haven’t worked since I’ve been in London. Sam said I didn’t have to, that he’d take care of it, and of course I agreed to it. I’m -- my mum pays half my tuition, Sam pays the other half. And Sam, he -- I use his car and his credit card and -- our flat, you know? I miss having my own place.”

Louis looks to him, and immediately, Harry drops his gaze to look at the table. “Me, Liam, Niall and Zayn were all going to get a flat together after uni. Zayn backed out a while ago, said he wanted to move in with his girlfriend, so it’s -- there’s room for a fourth person. If you wanted.”

Liam probably wouldn’t mind. Louis wouldn’t either, since he’s offering. And Harry’s met Niall enough to know that he’s a nice guy, so he probably wouldn’t care, either. Harry sits up a little and forces himself to look Louis in the eye. 

“I could get a job,” he says weakly. “I mean, I have to get a job. I know that. And I could pay my share, I could -- ” he cuts himself off, any excitement drained by the idea of leaving Sam permanently. He folds back into himself a bit, feeling incredibly dumb for thinking that’s a good idea. 

“You could get a job and pay your share,” Louis repeats, nodding. “And London has enough taxis for that to work until you can get your own car. Liam and I have our own cars, too, so if you ever needed a ride and we were around, we could take you. And your tuition is already paid for this semester, so that doesn’t matter. And when you start working, you’ll have money for other stuff, too. You’d have your own money that you’d be in control of.”

Harry closes his eyes and rubs a hand over his face, trying to get his thoughts in order. 

“You could have everything Sam gave you, without the price of getting hurt all the time, “ Louis says. “It’ll take time, and it won’t be easy, but you can build your own life that has absolutely nothing to do with him.”

“I haven’t not been with someone in so long,” he says quietly, embarrassed at admitting that he doesn’t know how to be single. 

“There are loads of other people out there. London is huge, Harry. You’ll meet somebody else. Somebody who won’t take advantage of you like Sam did.” He hesitates, and Harry glances up again. “I don’t mean to be rude, but I don’t know how people thought a seventeen-year-old being with a -- what?”

“He was twenty-three when we met.”

Louis shakes his head. “That’s a huge age difference when you’re that young. I mean, I don’t,” he sighs. “I don’t know. Someone should have said something, I think.”

“My mum’s the one that introduced us,” Harry says, voice breathy. He didn’t realize he was about to cry until he spoke, and he feels so stupid, so fucking stupid. When his lip wobbles, he bites on it and looks off to the side. “I don’t -- she meant well. He is her friend’s son and she had met him a few times, and I think she was just doing her best to show that she didn’t care that I was into guys, but -- ” he exhales shakily. “It’s not her fault.”

“Not saying that it is,” Louis says quickly. “Of course it isn’t her fault. But it isn’t yours, either.”

Harry swallows past the lump in his throat and wills away the tears. “I didn’t leave after it started.”

“Because you were young and naive and loved him,” Louis says. He sounds stern. “You might still love him, which is fine, okay? It’s fine. But even if you loved him, even if you didn’t leave, even if you did absolutely nothing to stop it, it was his responsibility as a human fucking being not to hurt you. There’s nothing you could have done to deserve any of it, including not leaving.”

Harry doesn’t know what to say, so Louis continues. 

“And guess what?” he says. “You don’t have to have any of this figured out right now. None of it. There’s absolutely nothing you have to decide right this minute. If Sam really loves you, then you should be able to go back to him whenever you think it’s safe to. I don’t think you should, but I know that you’re thinking about it. And you don’t have to make that decision right now. Sleep on it for a while. A few months. Spend a while at our flat, and I promise you, mate, you won’t be so eager to go back.”

 _Our_ flat. That sounds. . . nice. Tempting. 

They sit there together quietly for a few minutes. He likes it that Louis doesn’t force him to talk when he doesn’t want to. That he understands that Harry has absolutely no idea what to think right now. He’s deep in thought, enjoying the silence, when Louis grabs his backpack off the ground and puts it on the middle of the table. Harry glances at him, confused, before Louis grins. 

“You got a marker in here?”

“I think,” Harry mumbles, confused. He unzips the front pouch and digs around a bit for the permanent marker he usually has in his bag, and when he finds it, he hands it to Louis. Louis takes it from him, uncaps the marker, and motions for something. “What?” Harry asks, still so confused. Louis motions to his wrist. 

“Want to be the first to sign it,” he says. “If that’s okay.”

Slowly, Harry holds out the cast for Louis to sign. He writes his name in neat handwriting that looks nothing like his usual print, right along the thumb part. Louis’ name is right there, on his cast. Briefly, Harry thinks that he’ll have to scribble it out if he’s going back to Sam, and then he thinks that maybe he doesn’t want to do that after all. 

“Come on,” Louis says, standing. “Let’s go back to Liam’s.”

Harry stands and puts the marker back in his backpack. They walk back together silently, and Harry feels so much lighter than he did before. He waits until the ink is dry to run his fingers across the name, and once he does, he smiles softly to himself. 

-

Between that night and Sunday, Harry is a nervous wreck. He goes from very nearly lunging off the bed to pack his things and leave to feeling incredibly determined in the fact that he’s not going back, every hour or so. It’s frustrating and got his head all screwed up; he’s overly emotional and irritable and impulsive. He doesn’t feel like himself at all, and he hates it so much. 

On Friday morning, Harry was sitting at Liam’s desk, trying his best to concentrate on schoolwork, when Zayn came in. He was out with his girlfriend the night before (he’s gone a lot, but Liam promised him it’s not because of him). He eyed Harry’s cast before leaving to shower, and when he came back, he grabbed a permanent marker of his desk and asked if he could draw on the cast. Harry was a little surprised -- he and Zayn have barely spoken -- but agreed. It was a little awkward, sitting there while Zayn drew on it, but now he’s got a small superman shouting zap! on the bottom part of his cast, a penguin with earmuffs on the top part, and a small pair of angel wings near his wrist. It makes Liam and Louis’ writing seem dull, but Harry likes how it looks. 

Once Sunday passes and Harry didn’t go back to Sam, he feels sick to his stomach all the time and completely frazzled. He’s so jumpy and anxious that everyone -- Liam, Louis, even Zayn -- are worried about him. On Wednesday morning, after Harry gets yet another sleepless night, Liam talks him into blocking Sam’s number. 

“It’s eating you alive,” Liam tells him, rubbing Harry’s shoulders. He’s been coddling Harry a bit since Harry came home from class early yesterday because he had a -- panic attack or something. He’s not quite sure what it was, all he knows is that the room started getting dark and spinny and he got hot all over and thought he was going to throw up. “Just block him. You can unblock him whenever, okay? It’s not a big deal.”

Harry presses a shaking hand to his cast, picking at the edge of it. “He’ll be so,” a shuddering breath pushes itself through his chest, “so mad.”

He’s never felt so pathetic or worse in his life. It’s unfair, he thinks, that he has to deal with the mental issues he’s dealing with and physical problems on top of it. It’d be much more convenient if the issues stayed inside his head and didn’t affect anything else. 

“It doesn’t matter, Harry. Here, let me do it.”

Harry doesn’t object when he grabs his phone and does it himself. It’ll probably be better for him, he knows that. But when Liam sets his phone back down, meaning that he’s done it, a wave of nausea rolls over him and he has to take deep breaths to calm himself down. He sinks further under Liam’s covers and presses his cheek against the pillow. 

“Think I’m going to see my mum this weekend,” he says once the nausea has passed. “I can’t -- I don’t know if I can be here anymore.”

“That’s perfectly fine. Uni can wait.”

Seeing his mum gives him something to look forward to, gives him that bit of strength that he needs. He calls her on Thursday morning to tell her he’s going to drive over on Friday night. She’s surprised, although she doesn’t question it. Her not pushing him on it makes him think she knows something’s wrong, but it’s okay. Something is wrong. 

On Friday morning, a little while after he gets home from class, he gets the third call of the day from the same unknown number. He answers it just to squash the paranoia that it’s Sam. 

“Hello,” a man’s voice says. Not Sam; he’s relieved. “This is Officer Kent Matthews with the London Police. Is this Harry Styles?”

Harry freezes and a wave of panic hits him. Fucking shit, Sam killed himself, didn’t he? Oh, God, he made Sam kill himself, he -- oh, shit. 

“Yeah, that’s me. What’s wrong?”

Liam, who’s doing sit-ups on the floor, looks at him warily. 

“Samuel Evans has reported you as the one who has his stolen vehicle in custody,” he says, and relief floods over him before anger and annoyance take its place. “Could you come down to the police station so we can talk this over?”

“He can have it back,” Harry says, rolling his eyes. “That’s -- fuck. He can have it back. I didn’t _steal_ it. I’ve been driving it for years, but he can just have it back, it’s -- it’s just a misunderstanding.”

“A misunderstanding that needs to be discussed with an officer.”

“I will literally come right now,” Harry tells him, already standing up. “He can have his stupid car back, I don’t care. I don’t want to get into trouble over this.”

“If you come down to the station now, I’ll be here to discuss this with you further.”

“Okay. Okay, I’m coming. I’m -- sorry, for all this. I didn’t mean to cause any trouble.”

The officer hangs up the phone after telling Harry that he won’t be in any trouble if he complies, which does help him stop panicking as much. Harry’s tying his shoes when Liam asks him what’s going on, and Harry rolls his eyes again. 

“Sam told the police I stole his fucking car,” he snaps, beyond stressed and annoyed. Liam and Zayn both look alarmed, and Harry shakes his head. “He’s just doing this to scare me. And to discredit my character if I ever go to the police. He’s such a fucking asshole.” He grabs the stupid car keys and goes to leave, but Liam tells him to wait, that he’ll come with so Harry has a ride back. Harry does wait, because he didn’t think about how he’d get back and Liam would be the easiest way. 

On the car ride to the police station -- which is just a fucking surreal thing to even say -- Harry goes from being completely fuming to cripplingly sad over and over again. Sam can have the car back, that’s not what Harry’s sad about, it’s just. . . Sam can’t let him have a break, even after he’s begged for one. Sam will continue to harass him no matter how hard Harry tries to distance himself. 

And to think, a few days ago, he wanted to go back. He still kind of does, if he’s being honest with himself, but it feels like that’s a default setting that he’s trying to reset. 

When he gets to the police station, Liam and Harry talk to Officer Matthews about everything. Well, not everything. Harry just says they broke up and he left and he didn’t think Sam would care if he took the car. Liam is there to provide some comfort, which is a good thing, considering he’s absolutely bricking it when Officer Matthews says he’s going to call Sam and ask if he still wants to press charges. Sam wouldn’t be stupid enough to try and talk to him right now, not in front of the police, so he’s not worried about that, just. What if Sam really does try to press charges?

The conversation with Sam goes fast. Officer Matthews introduces himself, says Harry has returned the car, and asks if he still wants to press charges. Sam says no, and then he hangs up. 

“So am I,” Harry pauses and squeezes his hands together. “I’m fine, right? I’m good to go?”

“I’d like to take your statement for the police report, but yes, you should be fine.”

They leave the station about ten minutes later, the officer’s joke of, _Bad breakup, huh?_ ringing through his head. 

“He probably thought it’d be enough to get you back,” Liam says, which is probably true. “It didn’t work, though. He’s going to learn that you don’t want him anymore.”

Harry leans his forehead against the window, knowing that’s not true. Sam doesn’t learn lessons like that; he’ll take this as a sign that he needs to become more demanding, more intense. 

Louis is in their room when they get back, and he scoffs when he sees them. “Jesus Christ. Thought you were gonna end up in the pen tonight.” Zayn must’ve texted him. 

“So did I,” Harry mutters, moving to sit at Liam’s desk chair. He pulls his legs onto the chair and leans his arms against the table, sighing quietly. This is not how he wanted to spend the last hour of his life. And now he’s out of a car. 

“I’m not going to be able to go to my mum’s now,” Harry says quietly, realizing it as he says it. He tries to hide the hurt with anger, but it’s difficult. More than anything, he wanted to see his mother. 

“I work Saturday, but I could take you Sunday morning? Just for the day?” Liam offers, and Harry shakes his head. 

“It’s okay. I’ll just text her that I’ll come at a different time.”

And he’s in the middle of writing that text when Louis says, “You can just take my car.”

Harry turns to look at him, unsure. Louis nods encouragingly. 

“Seriously, it’s fine. Promise I won’t report it as stolen.”

“That’s -- ” _not funny_ dies on his tongue, and he shakes his head again. “That’s a big favor.”

“I don’t have anywhere to be this weekend, it’s fine. Really.”

Harry bites on his bottom lip, trying to figure out if he should accept the offer or not. For a total of ten seconds, he tells himself that it’s too much to ask, and then he decides no, it’s not. He wants to see his mum. He hasn’t seen her in over a year and half, and it was only for an hour or so because he was in town to celebrate Sam’s dad’s birthday and Sam didn’t want him doing anything else. 

“Thank you,” he breathes out, tears pricking his eyes. “Seriously. I’ll -- thank you.”

Louis just smiles. 

-

Harry leaves two hours later. On the way there, he’s anxious and wondering if his mum is going to be irritated with him coming on such short notice and trying not to think but failing. There are a few times during the car ride where his thoughts drown out and he can just focus on the music playing, on the lights outside, on the birds flying above. They’re few and far between, but during those times, he feels freer than he has in a while. 

There’s going to come a day where Sam doesn’t take up every one of his thoughts, and he’s equally excited and terrified for it. 

-

He tells himself to play it cool. No tears, no confessions, no awkwardness. He wants to leave here on Sunday afternoon without his mother not knowing a thing about anything. But when she answers the door, looking sleepy and warm in her pajamas, Harry doesn’t know how he’s going to make it through this weekend when he’s already close to tears. He gives her a wobbly smile before hugging her tightly, and she holds him back just as hard. 

“I’ve missed you, Mum,” he says once he thinks his voice will come out steady. It doesn’t, and she presses a hand against the back of his neck. 

“I’ve missed you, too, baby.”

He hunches down further so he can press his face against her shoulder. He feels small like this, but not in a bad way for once. “I’m sorry,” he breathes out. She doesn’t ask for what, because she already knows: for never visiting, for never calling, for never texting. 

“It’s okay, sweetheart.”

They stay like that, hugging each other on the doorstep, until one of Anne’s cats comes to the door and she tells him to come inside so the cat doesn’t get out. He does, shutting the door behind him, sniffling quietly. 

“What happened to your arm, honey?” she asks, touching his wrist. He smiles unsteadily again. 

“Had a little too much fun when I was drunk, is all.”

“Oh, love,” she says, rolling her eyes fondly. Harry’s just glad the bruise around his eye has faded by now. He ducks his head, feeling guilty for lying to her. “Are you hungry before bed? I made some extra dinner for you. I wasn’t sure.”

“Sure, Mum. That’d be nice.”

He makes them both a cup of tea while she reheats what looks to be chili. He shouldn’t feel so out of place here, Sam shouldn’t have managed to erase nearly twenty years of home here, but he does, and he hates it. 

“Is everything alright?” she asks him once they sit at the dining table. It shouldn’t be that she thinks him visiting means something is wrong. He should never have sacrificed his relationship with his mum for someone else. 

“Yeah.”

She doesn’t believe him, and he can tell. He’s not looking at her, and he can still tell. It doesn’t matter, though, because she doesn’t press him on it. Instead, she sits in silence with him while he eats. Safety is the first word that comes to his mind right now, in this moment. Here, with his mum and the cat on the chair next to him and his mum’s dinner, is his definition of safe. No wonder why Sam didn’t want him coming here too often; he didn’t want him getting used to this feeling. 

After he finishes eating and they finish their tea, his mum shows him to his room as if he’s forgotten where it is. It’s late, so they should probably be going to bed. At the doorway, she squeezes his shoulder and smiles at him. 

It’s been a good night so far, so he doesn’t know what he messes it up by saying, “I’m so sorry for being so distant. I’m -- yeah. I’m just really sorry.”

“Oh, love.” She pulls him back in for another hug. “It’s okay. As long as you know that you’ll always have a home here, it’s okay.”

Harry goes to bed that night feeling the best he has in a while. 

-

The following morning, he goes downstairs to find his mum brewing coffee and making eggs and bacon. As he walks into the kitchen, he scoops up a cat off the ground -- Nico, he thinks his name is -- and holds him to his chest, scratching his chin. 

“They don’t like that,” his mum says, shaking her head at him with a small smile. “They aren’t dogs, they like their space.”

“I don’t care,” Harry says, ignoring the way the cat squirms in his arms a bit. After he kisses Anne’s cheek and tells her good morning, he does put the cat down. He asks if she needs any help and she tells him to sit at the table. When he does, he pulls out his phone. He hadn’t checked it since he told Liam he made it here safely. 

_Good mate. Hope you have a good time_ , Liam replied. There’s a text from Louis, too. _Have fun!! Cheshire has nothing on yorkshire tho soz xx_ and then, _Alsooo ignore the random toys in the back, not a crazy person just have loads of baby siblings._

Harry smiles down at his phone. He did notice a boxed transformer in the back, but he didn’t question it. It’s Louis. 

“Is that Sam, love?” Anne asks, and immediately, Harry’s smile is gone. 

“No, just a friend.”

“Is Sam working?”

Harry doesn’t know. Sam worked every other Saturday, and for once in what feels like forever, Harry doesn’t know if he works today or not. “Yeah,” he says anyway. 

They don’t make it through breakfast before Sam is brought up again, and it’s proof enough that Harry can never tell her about what happened. She _adores_ Sam. Thinks he’s the best thing that ever happened to Harry. 

She asks him a few questions about him, and his answers must not be very convincing because she frowns and says, “Is something going on between you two? Is that why you’re here?”

Harry freezes, unsure of what to say. Lying to her could get him in trouble, if Sam is desperate enough to call her. Telling her the truth is out of the question, though. It’s kind of like in grade school when you get in a fight with a friend and tell your mum all about it, only to go on and become friends again. Once someone’s on her no-no list, they don’t come off of it. Harry doesn’t want it to be like that, for some reason. 

“We’re taking a break,” he says carefully. And the way Anne’s face falls and how she makes a sad noise lights anger in his stomach. “It was my decision,” he tells her, feeling slightly empowered by the fact that it’s true. 

“Oh, honey. What happened?”

Calculatedly, he says, “We just want different things.” It’s true, isn’t it. Sam wants to beat the fuck out of him, Harry would rather not have that happen. It’s not a lie. 

“But can you two work it out, do you think?”

“I don’t know,” he says honestly. 

She frowns. “You two are so good for each other, though. That’s. . . that’s such a shame. I’m sorry, dear.”

“It’s fine. Really.”

She grabs his hand off the table and pats it, and he gives her a small smile. Thankfully, that ends all talk of Sam. At least, until his sister comes by and it’s the first thing she brings up. 

“How’s Sam?” Gemma asks, her arm still around Harry’s shoulders. Harry missed her like mad; it’s been even longer than his mum since he saw her. 

“Oh, Gemma, no,” Anne says, shaking her head, and Harry resists the urge to roll his eyes. He slouches into Gemma’s side more and sighs quietly. 

“We’re on a break. It’s fine. How are you?”

They talk for a long time. A _long_ time. By the time they’ve ran out of things to say, Anne’s brought out the wine and they’re all a little tipsy. Harry has indulged himself the most, and he’s sprawled out on the arm chair, cheeks warm and worries forgotten. Not really, but it’s nice to think. 

“Alright, kiddos,” Anne says, getting up. She kisses the top of both their heads and lets out a loud exhale. “I’m officially exhausted. Stay up longer if you wish. Gemma, don’t let your brother get too wasted. He has to drive home tomorrow.”

Harry just hums and takes another sip. 

Once she’s gone up the stairs, Gemma turns to him and says, “How’d you really break your wrist?” 

Harry stares at her, a little dazed. Her tone has shifted from what it was not only a minute ago, and she’s frowning. Surely, she doesn’t think Sam did it. There is absolutely nothing that could have pointed to that. 

“What?” he asks. 

“You said you broke it while you were drunk, and then barely an hour later, you said you hadn’t gotten drunk in ages. _‘Probably since Christmas, or something.’_ So which is it?”

Harry closes his eyes and sets his head back against the chair. He’s too tired for this. Far, far too tired. And there’s a smaller part of him that thinks he should just tell her. He could. It’s different than telling his mum. But he isn’t sure he’s ready to show that weak, broken side of him yet, so he smiles sheepishly and says, “I may or might not have tried LSD a bit ago and fell down the stairs because they were moving. Don’t tell Mum.”

It’s a smart lie, and it works. Gemma throws a pillow at him, careful not to knock the wine glass, and says he’s a stupid fuck. Harry just hums again and takes another sip of wine. 

About two hours later, Harry and Gemma are a lot more sober and sitting outside. They’re both wearing their mum’s coats, Gemma in a leopard print one and Harry in a hot pink velvet one. They’re sitting on the porch out back, watching the moon and their breaths in the air. The tone has shifted from joyful to a little more solemn. Gemma is apprehensive of getting old and kids and growing up. They talk about world issues and current events, and none of that ever seems to be happy.

Maybe it’s the alcohol wearing off, or the fresh air, or just seeing his sister after so long, but something inside of Harry wants to tell Gemma what really happened. She’d be the first person he actively chose to tell, which is terrifying, but also something he kind of thinks he needs to do. It takes him an entire hour and four separate changes of conversation to work up the courage to, but once the courage is there, he feels ready to. 

“If I tell you something, will you promise not to tell Mum?”

Gemma snorts. “Are we ten again?” She nudges Harry’s foot with her own and nods, sets her chin on her arm that’s resting on her knees. “Yeah. Promise. I won’t tell her about the LSD thing, either.”

Harry half-smiles and looks at the trees. “I wouldn’t say me and Sam are on a break,” he says slowly. “I would say we’re most definitely broken up.”

“What happened?”

He swallows thickly, and for some reason, his smile gets a little wider. It’s not relief or joy or any of that, he’s just nervous and trying to cover it up. It’s a reflex, an attempt to protect himself and diffuse the situation. “He’s not. . . He’s not very nice to me, Gems.”

She sits up slowly. “What do you mean, H?”

“I had to leave,” he says vaguely. He won’t describe any abuse, he won’t, but he’ll give her the big picture. “I -- hmph. He was out one night, after an. . . argument of sorts, and I just grabbed what I could and left. It was -- not good. Yeah. It wasn’t a very good situation. 

“Harry. . .”

“Mum thinks he hung the bloody moon,” he mutters, shaking his head. “I don’t -- he didn’t. If she knew what type of person he really was, she’d hate herself for ever thinking so highly of him. I know I hate myself for it.”

“What type of person is he, Harry? What are you saying?”

“Cruel,” he says, furrowing his eyebrows, trying to find the right words. “Unforgiving. Relentless. Manipulative, controlling. . . toxic. Insane, probably.” He laughs hollowly. “And really, really fucking smart.”

Gemma makes a confused sound, and Harry closes his eyes and says, “I have never and will never take LSD. I’m a chicken shit. I cried the first time I got drunk, you were there for that.”

“ _Sam_ did that to you?” She sounds horrified. 

“And so much worse, Gemma, so -- ” he voice breaks, so he just stops talking. And here comes the tears, and Harry covers his face and lets them come. He doesn’t know why he wanted to tell her, and he doesn’t know if he regrets it yet, but Gemma wrapping him up in a hug and rubbing his back and going back and forth between saying she’s going to kill Sam to saying she loves Harry more than anything -- that helps clear some things up in his head. 

“You can’t tell Mum,” he says, hiccuping on a sob. This is the first time that he’s cried that it doesn’t make him feel weak. Crying right now feels justified. 

“Okay,” she whispers. “Okay, I won’t. Promise.” 

It doesn’t feel like anything has gotten better from telling someone, but it doesn’t feel like anything got worse, either, so he takes it as a victory. 

-

The car ride back to campus is liberating in a soft, mild type of way. It’s not like he feels magically better, because he doesn’t, although it’s easier to forget about everything for just a few hours. The volume of the radio is turned high, not because he’s trying to drown out his thoughts, but to amplify them in a way. He’s on a high, and it’s only because he saw his sister and mum after so long, which doesn’t matter, because he’s going to ride it out as long as he possibly can. 

-

-

“No, we’re not going to have bloody _fairy lights_ in our room.”

“Why not?”

Liam scoffs at Louis. “They’re a fire hazard, first of all. Second of all -- ”

“What, they’ll clash with your macho, _Iron Man_ decor?”

“ _Yes,_ ” Liam says. He says loudly, like he’s actually wound up by the ideas of fairy lights in the room. He probably is, but they all know he’s being extra cranky because he has an interview for a job tomorrow. Out of the five of them, Liam -- the only one who went in a STEM program -- has gotten the most job opportunities since graduating. Niall went into sports communication, Zayn has done two separate art degrees, and Harry and Louis are living in constant panic because there isn’t a direct path after getting an English degree, but Louis isn’t worried about it, so neither is Harry. 

“This is the real reason I’m not moving in with them,” Zayn whispers to Harry, his cheek resting on Harry’s shoulder. They’re at a restaurant to discuss last-minute apartment decisions and Zayn decided to tag along even though he isn’t part of it. Louis is sitting on the other side of Liam, and he keeps bumping Harry’s arm with how expressive his hand gestures are. Liam’s doing the same thing to Niall on the other side of the table. 

“Do you think it’s too late to back out of the contract?” Harry whispers back, grinning at him. It is, obviously. They moved in a few days ago, but boxes are spread everywhere still and nobody’s had any time to do some real decorating. The plan was for Liam and Louis to room together while Niall and Harry shared the other room, but a few strings of fairy lights might change that. 

“I’m trying to get a girlfriend, alright,” Liam says, “and if I take her back home -- ”

“Unlikely,” Niall and Louis say at the same time, and Liam groans. 

“It’ll be romantic,” Zayn tries, for Louis’ sake. And Louis cheers at that, taking Zayn choosing his side in stride. He milks it for all it’s worth, and when Liam stops caring about Zayn’s opinion on the matter, Louis changes his course of action. 

“Harry thinks fairy lights are a good touch, doesn’t he?”

Harry shrugs. “I don’t see why not.”

“Thank you,” Louis says. 

“Then room with Harry,” Liam tells him exasperatedly. 

Niall snorts. “Good luck sleeping with the wait he snores.”

“I do _not_ snore that badly.” Harry objects, offended. 

Niall just raises his eyebrows at him. 

“Fine,” Liam says. “Niall’s with me, Louis and his fairy lights are with you. Deal?”

There are no objections for anybody, so that’s that. 

-

It wouldn’t be incorrect to say that Harry’s not handling everything is the best way. He’s not -- it’s not unhealthy, how he’s coping. And there are no right ways to handle this, or whatever Liam and Louis always tell him. 

It’s like there are two different versions of himself. 

The first version is who he wants to be. Who he used to be. It shouldn’t be so difficult to copycat, but sometimes it’s hard remembering how he used to act. He tries his hardest to be this chill, funny, charming guy who isn’t bothered by anything, who is strong and won’t take any shit from men. It’s the version of himself that he desperately wishes wasn’t just a front. He wants to be that person again and refuses to believe that Sam distorted his entire identity. Deep down, that person must be inside of him still, and if he fakes it long enough, he’s hoping he’ll make it. 

The second version of himself is the one that he hates, the one that apologizes for everything and gets flustered easily and thinks he’s been yelled at when he’s really not. It’s the part of him that takes over when he panics; about the bloke at the pub two weeks ago that had the same jacket as Sam; about pissing off everyone around him; about nightmares that claw their way into his head almost every night. This part of himself has made it so only advances from women are entertained. It’s the part of himself that worries constantly, about everything. Last week at his job at a convenience store, one of his male coworkers had brushed up behind him to scoot past him to grab a box, and it was innocent, it was, but it sent Harry down a dark hole of bad thoughts and anxieties and such paranoia that he genuinely considered quitting right then and there. He hates when he gets like that, so he tries to tell himself that it’s not who he really is. 

It’s not really fair on himself, though, is it. That part of himself, the skittish, weak, terrified part, is still as real as the other parts of him. Realer, if anything. But Harry isn’t ready to accept that his life as a victim of abuse didn’t end when his relationship with Sam did. It took him ages to accept that Sam was abusive, so he supposes it makes sense that it’s taking him forever to accept that those types of scars don’t heal so quickly.

It’s been four and a half months since he left Sam, and he spends most of those days regretting it, which is something he’s so ashamed of. It’s hard not to miss being cuddled and loved and looked after, though. He misses being something to someone, being needed by someone. Sam reduced his entire worth to how much he needed Harry, and knowing that Sam doesn’t need him at all hurts in ways that words can’t explain. He was on the verge, the very edge, of going back to Sam’s after he graduated, but then him and the boys went to see the flat and Niall bumped his arm and said, “This will be our room, then,” and Harry had never felt such hope. 

It’s hard getting over Sam, though, when he knows that he could force his way back into Harry’s life any time. If he finds out where Harry works, or where he lives. . . Harry wouldn’t be strong enough to say no to him in person. And he knows Sam probably hasn’t given up on him yet; just last month, he resorted to calling Anne again. He had done it a few times before, but he kept it innocent. This time, he told Anne that he was seriously concerned for Harry’s mental state, that she should be scared he’s going to hurt himself. Sam had told his mum that the reason why Harry was so distant from her was because he was diagnosed with bipolar disorder and he was ashamed of it. _He said you’re manic right now,_ Anne told him when she called him, concerned out of her mind. _He said you get like this sometimes and that you’ve tried to hurt yourself in the past and that you were diagnosed after you had some sort of mental break. He said you tried to hurt him, Harry._ She sounded like she believed every word of it, and when Harry snapped defensively that that was the opposite of the truth, she took his offense as a red flag. 

“I am not fucking crazy, Mum,” he cried, he actually cried. He felt so fucking stupid and small and like she wasn’t ever going to believe him. “I’m not -- I’m not _that_.”

“He’s not saying you’re crazy, love, he’s saying you’re sick.”

“I’m not. I will -- I’ll go to whatever doctor or psychiatrist you want, and they’ll show you I’m not crazy or sick or anything like that. I'm perfectly mentally sound, Mum, don’t -- don’t believe him. Believe me, God, please believe me.”

“He said you wouldn’t admit it. . .”

“Because he’s the fucking crazy one,” Harry nearly shouted. “He’s the -- Mum, please. Don’t believe him. I’ll go to the doctors as soon as I can to prove that he’s lying. I haven’t -- I will send you every goddamn medical document from the past few years that I can get my hands to prove to you that isn’t true.”

“Why would he lie, sweetheart? I don’t understand.”

“Because he’s my bloody ex-boyfriend who I left after five years,” Harry snapped. He couldn’t believe her. Still can’t, to be honest. He knew she adored Sam, but he didn’t realize that she valued his truth over Harry’s. And maybe that’s not fair -- if Harry was actually mentally ill, maybe there would be some sort of conversation to be had about his reliability. It’s just. Sam’s whole goal with that is to turn her against Harry, and it sort of worked. Harry’s nervous whenever he talks to his mum now, worried about saying something that might make her think differently of him. 

Zayn was in the room with him that night, and they still hadn’t talked very much. It didn’t stop him from coming over to Liam’s bed and comforting Harry, who was beyond overwhelmed and questioning everything, even himself. For a split second -- longer than that, but he’s too embarrassed to admit it -- he seriously feared he was actually mentally ill and facing some sort of episode where he wasn’t in his right mind, and Sam was right and Harry was insane and nothing had happened after all. 

That’s Harry’s least favorite part of this all, probably. The way he constantly questions himself. Sam had repeatedly twisted his reality so much that Harry whole-heartedly believed things as fact, and now Harry’s left to question absolutely everything. The other day, he thought he set his bottle of water on the counter and when he went back for it, it wasn’t here. He wound up in such a spiral that he thought that it was never there at all, that he must have never even grabbed one to begin with, and he thought _see, this is why Sam thinks you’re crazy, maybe you are._ And then a few minutes later, Niall came into the kitchen and said he nicked Harry’s water because there weren't any cold ones left in the fridge. 

He does his absolutely best to hide anything negative from the boys. Once they’re properly living together, it’s more difficult, but he tries his absolute hardest. If he’s having a bad day, he stays to himself, scared he’ll lash out on someone. He wakes up earlier than anyone else to make sure he didn’t sweat through his pajamas from the constant nightmares. If he does, he throws them in the wash before anyone can see and showers. When some man who isn’t doing anything wrong wherever they are rubs Harry the wrong way, Harry keeps his panicking to himself. Nobody should have to worry about him. 

Sometimes, though, it’s hard to keep everything to himself. Sometimes things bleed out that he tries to keep hidden, like how he snapped at Liam a few nights ago for trying to get Harry to say hi to a guy who kept looking at him or how he got so anxious at the grocery store with Niall last week that he had to go wait in the car or how, sometimes, Louis hears him crying at night since they’re now roomies and he goes to bed later than Niall did. There are also times that Harry just wants to talk about it with someone. Those times are few and far between, and usually he talks to his sister, but they do happen. 

Like tonight. It’s been a relatively good day; he ate breakfast with Liam and played video games with Louis and went with Liam to get his car washed. But during dinner, as he ate alone because everyone else was busy, he just got really sad. For no real reason, but he has found there doesn’t have to be a reason to be sad sometimes. The feeling hasn’t left him, and it’s nearing midnight now. 

As quietly as he can because it looks like Louis’ asleep, Harry slides out of bed and slips his shoes on. He’s taking his coat off the hanger when Louis sits up and looks at him. 

“You going for a walk?” he asks, his voice tired. Harry hopes he didn’t wake him. 

“Yeah. I’ll probably be back before one.”

Louis makes an unhappy noise. “It’s late. And dark.”

“I’ll be fine. I do it all the time.”

Harry is sliding on his coat when Louis sits up completely, turns on the fairy lights sprawled across their room, and says, “Hold on. Let me pee and I’ll come with you.”

“You don’t have to. I’ll be okay.”

“I want to,” Louis amends, standing up. “Is that okay?

He’s always careful about not pressuring Harry into agreeing to things, which is a good thing considering he struggles to speak up for himself. 

“If you want,” Harry says, nodding. 

After Louis goes to the bathroom and gets dressed, they head out together. 

It’s dark outside. Obviously. And it’s a bit chilly. Harry usually listens to music whenever he goes out and about like this, but since Louis is here, he doesn’t. He listens to the cars speeding by and their shoes scraping the ground and the dull howl of the wind. It’s what would make Harry antsy, if Louis wasn’t here. 

“Couldn’t sleep?” Louis asks, about five minutes in. 

Harry shakes his head, staring down at the sidewalk in front of him. He wants to talk about it, wants to open up a bit, and right now, he doesn’t really know how. Everything he wants to say feels repetitive, like he’s been over it with someone a hundred times before. He doesn’t want to get anyone annoyed with him. 

“Just can’t shut your brain off?”

Harry nods. 

“Is it. . . Are you thinking about Sam?”

Harry nods again as he says, “Just, like. Just doesn’t really feel like it’s over.”

“It is. It’s over.”

“Feels like it didn’t even happen in the first place,” Harry mumbles, his cheeks warming slightly with how embarrassed that makes him. He doesn’t want anyone to doubt him, but it’s hard when he doubts himself. “It’s, like. . . what if I just made it all up in my head? Or I made things seem worse than they really were.”

“You can’t fake bruises. Or that look of fear in your eyes sometimes. You can’t fake that.”

“But what if it didn’t?” Harry continues. It’s been weighing on him all night. “What if -- what if I’m crazy or something, and you’re crazy, too, and Sam’s sitting at home all by himself, worried about me and just trying to get me help. What if I left him over nothing? Can you imagine that, someone breaking up with you after all those years over nothing?”

“It wasn’t over nothing,” Louis says sternly. “If -- sure. If in some other universe, Sam is innocent in all this, then that would suck for him, but that isn’t this universe. In this reality, he called the cops on you and told your mum you were mentally ill. That’s not what an innocent person does.”

“I know,” Harry agrees quietly, nodding. “I know, sorry. I don’t -- sorry.”

Louis bumps his shoulder into his, and when Harry glances at him, he’s smiling softly. “Don’t apologize. Nothing to be sorry for. We’re just talking.”

“I just don’t want him sad,” Harry whispers, voice so, so quiet. He shrinks in on himself a bit, shoulders hunched and head ducked, ready to be reprimanded for thinking that about someone who hurt him so deeply. All Louis does is wrap his arm around Harry’s shoulder the best he can with their height difference and tugs on him. 

“And that’s what makes you different from him.”

They walk in silence for the rest of the walk, and Harry is able to sleep once they get back. 

-

Liam, Louis and Niall go out. A lot. There’s always some excuse; it’s lads night. The footy game! They’re having a two-for-one deal at the pub. It’s Taco Tuesday, and that calls for a round of drinks and a suspicious lack of tacos. At first, Harry forces himself to go to as many as he can, even if he’s tired or not in a good mood or just doesn’t want to. Eventually, Liam catches on that Harry isn’t always up for it and he promises him they won’t think he’s a snooze if he doesn’t go with them all the time. 

“You think Zayn went out this much with us?” he asked, scoffing. “Please. He’s invited every single time and when is the last time you have seen him come out with us? There’s nothing wrong with wanting quiet.”

Now Harry goes out with him about sixty-percent of the time. Tonight, though, they’re celebrating Liam getting his first big-boy job and Niall winning fifty pounds on a scratch-off. So, of course, he can’t miss it. 

There’s no in-between with Harry. Sometimes, he nurses the same drink the entire night, and the other nights, he gets completely hammered. Tonight is one of those nights that he is well on his way to hating himself tomorrow morning. 

He’s talking to Liam in slurred sentences about absolutely nothing when Niall nudges him and says, “Jesus, mate. That girl over there has been looking at you all night. It’s totally not fair that you get girls _and_ guys trying to get into your pants.”

Louis grins. “I think Nialler here is saying that it’d be more convenient for him if you were strictly into guys.”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying,” Niall mutters, taking a sip from his drink. Harry pats his shoulder sympathetically before looking back at Liam, and Niall sighs loudly. “You’re not even going to go talk to her? Look at her. That’s such a waste.”

Harry quickly scans the room and yes, there’s a pretty girl by the bar who’s looking over at their table -- not specifically at him -- and she ducks her head and glares daggers at her friend when she catches him looking. “She seems lovely.”

“You should go talk to her,” Niall says, and Harry completely writes off the idea until he catches Liam’s eye and he’s shrugging. 

“Would be good for you, maybe. Getting back out there. Snogging random girls for a few minutes isn’t going to keep you sane forever.”

There had been two times that he’s done that so far, that’s it. Two times. The first time, he was so drunk and so was she that he barely even remembers what she looked like. The second time, he was a little more sober and a lot more nervous; she wanted to come back home with him, but he didn’t feel ready for that. 

Harry wrinkles his nose and shakes his head. “I don’t think so. I’m not ready for another relationship yet.”

“And I doubt she’s looking for one here,” Louis says, butting in. “She probably just wants a quick shag, same as you. Go for it, if you want.”

“Haven’t flirted with anybody in ages,” he mumbles, already blushing at how many stupid things he can imagine himself saying. 

“You don’t have to be intelligent, you just have to be fit,” Niall says. 

Louis nods. “Which you are. So go for it. Leave us to be horny and lonely by ourselves.”

Briefly, Harry considers it. It wouldn’t be a bad thing, he doesn’t think. He’d probably enjoy himself. Just. . . it doesn’t feel like the right time, for whatever reason. He isn’t ready to be what she probably expects from him: forward, confident, dominant. And that’s most definitely his own insecurities that he’s projecting, but it doesn’t make them any less real. Sex isn’t something that his brain sees strictly as pleasurable anymore. He’s wary of the situation in general, so he doesn’t want to rush into anything until he’s one-hundred percent he’s fine. 

The boys don’t press him on it, thankfully. They don’t ask for an explanation. Louis and Liam are probably assuming that he's nervous to move on from Sam, and Niall doesn’t know the whole story, but with the pieces of the puzzle he does have, he pretty much gets the big picture. 

After a few more drinks, the four of them take a taxi home. They’re all ungracefully walking that line between drunk and sloppy-drunk. Liam’s probably the least drunk of them all, while Niall is almost completely gone. It’s not surprising that he goes straight to bed while the three of them plop on the couch and start talking shit. It’s half past one and they’re talking about the concept of television when Liam gets the case of beer out of the fridge. 

“He’s trying to kill us,” Louis mumbles as he reaches for one. He grabs one for Harry, too, and tosses it to him. Harry catches it and cracks it open, but he doesn’t drink from it yet. Liam sits back down between them and they resume their stupid conversation. 

“Do you believe in soulmates?” Liam asks a few minutes after the TV-conversation dies down. They’ve all gone through the first beer, and Liam’s the only one who didn’t reach for a second. 

“No,” Louis says easily. “I mean, sure, do I think that there’s one person that would perfectly match up with another person, yeah. I think that there are enough people in the world for that to be the case. But I don’t think we were meant to be with one destined person.”

It’s not that easy for Harry. He isn’t sure what he believes. It’s hard to think about when the one thing that’s rolling around his head is, _If soulmates are real, then Sam would probably be mine and I’ve just walked out on him._ It’s stupid. Soulmates are meant to be ideal for one another, and Sam and Harry’s relationship was a lot of things and ideal wasn’t one of them. It’s almost like Sam rewired his head so that everything was and still is and will always be about him. It makes Harry feel powerless.

“I don’t know,” Harry says eventually. 

“I don’t think I’d want it to be that easy,” Louis continues. “Like, I want to be with someone because we fit and we think we fit, not because something else decided we fit. I don’t. . . love shouldn’t be hard, that’s not what I’m saying. Just. . . I don’t know. I’m too drunk.”

Liam hums in agreement and tips his head back against the couch. He’s quiet before he says, “Alright. I need to get to bed.”

Louis pats his shoulder. “Night, Payno.”

“Night, Liam. Congrats again.”

Liam mumbles something incoherent before he heads to his room. It’s just him and Louis now, and in Liam’s absence, Louis stretches out more, his head laying on the middle couch cushion now. Harry sips more beer while Louis closes his eyes and lets out a quiet sigh. With neither of them starting a conversation, it’s peaceful. It’s quiet in real life and inside of Harry’s head, thanks to the alcohol. He feels like he’s floating, kind of. Floating somewhere warm and safe. 

Eventually, Louis asks, “Why didn’t you go talk to that girl tonight?” Harry looks down at him, and Louis’ already looking back at him. 

“Don’t really know, to be honest. Just wasn’t feeling it.”

“But she was young and fit and clearly into you. Was it. . . was it just not wanting to, or did it have something to do with Sam? I’m just curious.”

“I don’t know,” he says honestly. “A bit of both, maybe.”

Louis sits up, then, and he sets his beer can on the table. He pulls his knees up closer to him, and with the way his elbows are extending out, his arm is pressed against Harry. “When do you think you’ll be ready? Obviously there’s no time limit, or anything. Just. Liam’s worried you’ll never find someone else.”

Liam’s clearly not the only one worried about that, but since Louis didn’t involve himself, Harry won’t either. 

“I don’t know. Eventually. I’m not. . .” he shrugs a shoulder. “I’m still into guys and girls -- anyone, really -- but I feel like I didn’t get to figure the bloke stuff out before everything went to shit. I haven’t been with a girl in _so_ long, and it’s just. . . I feel like it’d be weird for me. I’m not really sure that makes any sense, but.”

“No, it does.”

Harry looks over at Louis again, and it’s suddenly very obvious that he’s close enough to kiss. It’s -- he’s drunk. They both are. And all this stupid moving on talk has him lonely and worried, and it’s -- Louis is nothing like Sam. Louis is soft and kind and understanding, and he -- he could take care of Harry like Sam, probably. (And no, Harry doesn’t need someone to take care of him, that’s just kind of what he was taught loved looks like.) He’s drunk, and literally less than two hours ago he didn’t feel ready to kiss anyone else, but now that Louis is right here, right beside him, he can’t think of a reason not to. He’d do the same with Liam, he tells himself, he tells himself that knowing full well it isn’t true. It’s just. . . does it have to be more than that? Harry wants to kiss someone, and Louis is right there. Can’t that be enough?

Harry leans forward, barely, before Louis puts his hand on his shoulder, holding him back gently. 

“That’s not what I was getting at,” he says slowly, confusion pooling in his eyes. “That’s not -- I mean, if that’s what _you_ want to get at, I’m up for it, but I wasn’t saying that we have to do that.”

“But can we?”

Harry hopes he’s drunk enough to forget about this tomorrow. He’s being stupid and selfish and irresponsible. And he’s not being faithful to Sam, which is something he shouldn’t care about but does anyway. 

When Louis kisses him, for a long moment, Harry doesn’t think anything. His mind is carefully blank as he kisses back, and it’s slow and lazy and good. It’s good. Louis’ hand moves from his shoulder to the back of his neck, holding him close but not possessively. Harry doesn’t really move at all, too scared to ruin this with clumsy hands. 

Louis pulls away first, though he lingers to drag his thumb across Harry’s bottom lip. His lips are a little red and shiny, and he has a hint of lust in his eyes. He probably wants more and won’t ask for it. 

“Good?” Louis asks, and Harry’s nods silently, suddenly feeling a lot more sober. Louis must be feeling the same way, because he squeezes Harry’s neck softly before pulling away completely and grabbing another beer out of the case. Harry takes one, too, and he sits back against the couch, head startlingly clear. 

They drink two more beers together silently. Harry worries that things are going to be awkward now -- and they should be, probably, because even though they’re drunk and friends, that’s not an entirely normal thing to do together -- until Louis nudges his shoulder and says he’s going to head to bed. 

“You coming?” he asks at the doorway since Harry hasn’t moved. 

Harry glances at him and nods. “In a second,” he says. 

“Alright. Put the beer back in the fridge or Liam will kill you.”

Harry does a few minutes later. After he goes to the bathroom, he heads to bed as quietly as he can manage, kind of hoping that Louis is already asleep. When he’s trying to get the blanket untangled from his legs, Louis sits up a bit and says, “Night, Haz.”

It doesn’t have to be awkward. Why should it, when the kiss didn’t really mean anything.

“Night, Louis.”

-

Niall gets a job in his field a week after Liam. The next time he meets up with Zayn, he says he’s been doing some commission work on the side that he didn’t feel the need to mention because he’s stupidly humble. So then it’s only Harry and Louis living in the land of uncertainty, up until the end of July when Louis gets in as a helper for the drama department at a nearby school. Then, it’s just Harry left to fend for himself. 

University wasn’t always the plan. He was uncertain about what he wanted to do, and he was going to take some time to figure it out. He wasn’t in a rush, not at all. But Sam wanted to move to London, and Harry thought the only way his mum would allow that is if he had the excuse that he was going to school there. So he enrolled into an expensive school and took difficult courses to get a degree that he didn’t really have too much passion for but Sam said he’d be better off steering away from anything like math or science. To him, apparently Harry lacked the smarts for that. And English wasn’t an easy degree by anyway means, and he put a lot of hard work and time into it. It’s not like he’s unhappy with his decision, it’s just that he wishes he knew for certain what he wanted to do, and he doesn’t have a clue. He doesn’t want to be a teacher or an author, and those are the only two real clear avenues to head towards after getting his degree. 

Compared to the other boys, he constantly feels like he’s lacking. In experience and confidence and a career now. It’s just another knock on his self-esteem, which has always managed to find new lows. 

He can’t talk about that with them, though, can he. He’s not going to make them feel bad for their achievements because he doesn’t have his shit together. So, hesitantly, he calls his mum, and she manages to make it about a million times worse. 

Harry’s just venting to her a little, careful not to sound too hopeless or upset about it, when she first brings up Sam, which is just so not cool. So not fucking cool. He doesn’t care that she doesn’t know the full story; she shouldn’t need to know everything to know that you shouldn’t just bring up someone’s ex, especially when it ended poorly. 

“Sam always had connections,” she says cautiously. “He was always very good at networking. Maybe you could ask him.”

Harry glares at his ceiling. He and Niall are the only ones home right now, and by the sounds of it, he’s playing on the Xbox in the living room. “Ask him what?”

“If he knows anybody who could get you in the door.”

He tries his hardest to stay rational. “He’s an accountant, Mum. His field has nothing to do with mine.”

“You never know.”

There’s a small pause that he ends with a punctuated, “ _Anyways._ ” 

Thankfully, Anne doesn’t bring Sam up again for the rest of the conversion. They have a normal, somewhat-helpful conversation. After a while, they say goodbye to each other and Harry finally leaves his room to pee and get something to eat. 

“Look who’s alive,” Niall says, not moving his eyes from the TV screen. 

“Yeah. Morning.”

Harry sits at the kitchen table while he eats. He plans on going back to his room after a while anyway, so when his mum calls him back about an hour later, he answers and heads to his room. He closes the door, and just after she says hello, she says, “Okay, don’t be mad.”

Harry frowns as he sits at the desk chair in the room. “Okay. About what?”

“Well, I called Sam, and -- ”

He closes his eyes. “You did what?” he asks, interrupting. 

“Oh, don’t be like that. I just wanted to see if he knew anybody who -- ”

“ _Mum,_ ” Harry snaps. “That is my ex-boyfriend. Don’t talk to him, what the hell. And don’t ask him for favors for me.”

She doesn’t seem all too bothered by it. “I know, honey, I know. But he has a friend at the firm whose wife is an English teacher at a high school, and she said she could get you in as a helper? Like a tutor. Wouldn’t that be nice?”

He shakes his head, jaw clenched tightly. That’s -- fucking hell. Now Sam knows he’s struggling, and he’s going to take it as his way back in. Anne is playing right into his hand by proving to Sam that Harry still needs him. But Harry _doesn’t_ \-- at least, he doesn’t want to -- so he shakes his head again and says no.

“But Harry,” she says sadly. 

“He’s my ex-boyfriend, Mum. Absolutely not, am I taking anything from him.”

“But it’s a job.”

Harry scoffs. “I don’t care. I don’t want you talking to him.”

“That’s not very fair, love,” she says. “He calls, sometimes, just to check-in, and -- ”

That sends white-hot anger through his veins. His heart rate starts to pick up and he’s back to glaring at the ceiling. “You _talk_ to him? How often?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe once a week. But -- ”

“Are you kidding me?” Harry nearly shouts. “He -- _Mum_. He tried to convince you I was fucking crazy to get back at me for breaking up with him, which _you_ almost believed, by the way, and you think that’s forgivable? Really?”

She sighs quietly. “I think that you two are both still so young, and sometimes break ups can be hard and feelings can be hurt.”

“ _I’m_ still young, sure. He’s nearly fucking thirty.”

“Harry.” She sounds so disappointed. 

“Don’t talk to him,” he says sternly. “Do not talk to him. You’re just -- you’re just doing what he wants, Mum.”

“What do you think he wants? I don’t understand, love.”

“To turn you against me.”

“I think he just wants to talk, sweetheart. I really think that’s all he wants. He wants to hear how you’re doing. He misses you.”

Tears threaten to pour. Maybe he shouldn’t be mad at his mum -- Sam _is_ very charming and very good at making odd situations seem completely normal -- but he finds it in him to be anyway. 

“If you’re gonna keep talking to him,” he says through clenched teeth, “then don’t tell me anything he says. I don’t even want to hear his name, okay? Leave me out of it.”

“But -- ”

“No,” he snaps. “Nothing. Not a zip. I don’t care what he’s doing or what he says or who he’s missing. _Leave me out of it._ ”

Anne relents. “Okay. Okay, I understand. I won’t bring him up again.”

“Thanks,” he mumbles, although she didn’t exactly do anything. 

He makes up a reason to get off the phone a few minutes later and crawls into bed. He’s so annoyed with today. This morning he woke up feeling worthless, and now he feels like his mum prefers his abusive ex-boyfriend over him, which is just great. And, like always, there’s that constant, dull ache for Sam. He misses him. He regrets leaving, although not really, although yes he does. It’s confusing. It hurts. 

When he hears Louis get in, he turns to his side facing the wall so he won’t see his face. Harry doesn’t like being visibly weak in front of anyone. He was trained not to be, so when he can help it -- and right now, he isn’t feeling terrible enough to feel unable to hide it -- he won’t bother anybody with what he’s feeling. 

Louis comes into their room and changes, by the sounds of it. He sits down and does something for a few minutes, and then he clears his throat. “Are you actually asleep or are you faking?”

And, well. Now it’d just be embarrassing to get caught in this lie, so he turns over onto his back and stares at the ceiling. He huffs. “Not faking. Just can’t sleep.”

“Okay.” Louis stands, and Harry thinks he’s going to leave, until he says, “Scoot. I want to nap, too.”

Harry smiles at him, can’t help it. “Your bed is literally right there.”

“It’s not warm yet,” he argues, coming over. He slides under the covers next to Harry and lets out a loud sigh. “See? All warm.”

It doesn’t mean anything. They’ve cuddled before; he’s cuddled with all of them before. It’s not that out of the ordinary. There’s nothing in the world that Harry likes better than being cuddled, though, so he turns onto his side and hopes Louis gets the message. He does, easily slotting himself behind Harry and snuggling into him. He has his arm around Harry’s waist, and when his phone vibrates somewhere between them, Louis fishes it out and replies to a text in front of Harry. 

Sam never used to let Harry see his phone. 

“Sleep,” Louis tells him after he sets his phone on the table, the ringer off. He presses his cheek against Harry’s pillow. By the sounds of it, he falls asleep within a few minutes. Harry doesn’t, he stays awake, but sitting here and listening and being close to someone else is more peaceful than a nap could ever be. 

-

Maybe not taking that nap is what causes it, or maybe it’s all the negative emotions that are building up within him all day. Either way, at eleven when he goes to bed (and he’s the first to give into the tiredness, which makes him feel unreasonably weak and left out), he realizes that Sam’s birthday is in exactly a month and he’s going to miss it. It’s August nineteenth, and he’s going to miss it, and he hasn’t missed it in _so_ long. It’s going to make Sam feel so lonely and abandoned, or maybe it won’t. Maybe he’ll go out with his friends and not give Harry a second thought because he doesn’t have a place in his life anymore. He honestly doesn’t know which is worse. 

He cries, but tries really hard not to, so it’s frequent sniffing and a burning throat and stubborn tears that leak down his cheeks. When Louis comes to bed, it’s after midnight, and Harry immediately falls perfectly quiet. He can’t particularly breathe out of his nose right now and it’s hard to resist the urge to sniffle, yet he stays silent anyway because he doesn’t want Louis knowing he’s crying.

After he can’t hold it in anymore, he lets out a tiny sniffle. And then another one a few minutes later. He doesn’t think it’s anything inherently suspicious, although he cries a lot so he’s not very surprised when Louis asks if he’s upset. 

“I’m fine,” he croaks out, his voice sounding the exact opposite of his words. It’s silent for a moment before Louis gets out of his own bed and climbs into Harry’s. He cuddles into him, just like he had done earlier. 

Louis doesn’t ask what’s wrong. Harry doesn’t tell him. Like that, they fall asleep together. 

-

As the designated grocery shopper of the week, he’s out at the shops to pick up whatever they need around the flat. Toilet paper, napkins, a rubix cube if they have one because Niall wants one for whatever reason. He heads to Sainsbury’s after his shift at the convenience store via taxi, and he does his shopping without any trouble. Until he passes the kids’ toys aisle and a box that’s decorated with comic strips, looking as if it was wrapped in it, catches his attention. 

It’s just. Sam loves comic strips. He likes the littles people making bad jokes, and he always has. He always showed them to Harry, and he’d pretend to find them just as funny as Sam did. Not because he was scared, but because he genuinely enjoyed seeing Sam happy. From a distance, he stares at the box. It would cute, maybe, to put a bunch of little knick-knacks in it that Sam would like, at some chocolate -- some Maltesers, he loves Maltesers, maybe they have some around here, maybe --

He forces himself to stop, to clear his head. No. He’s not giving Sam a birthday present, because he hasn’t seen him in months and he wants to keep it that way. He can’t go back now, not after everything. Not -- no. 

He manages to push the cart ahead three aisles before he turns back around. 

Maybe he doesn’t have to give it to him. Maybe he can just keep it for himself, as a reminder for the times that were good. That’s how he convinces himself that it’s okay to put in the cart: it’s for himself, not Sam. And when he can’t find an excuse as to why he’s buying Maltesers and a giftcard to Sam’s favorite restaurant and a small stuffed dog to put in the box, well. He pretends like he isn’t. 

-

For the next few days, he feels insanely guilty about buying the gift for Sam. It’s got him fidgety and paranoid and more awkward than normal. The box is just sitting in his bedside table, and every time Louis comes anywhere close to him, it feels like he’ll be able to sense it. It shouldn’t be a bad thing, him buying a gift for Sam. Except, really, in any context -- abuse or not -- it is maybe a little weird to buy your ex-boyfriend a gift. 

He manages to keep it to himself for about six days, until Liam climbs into his bed, wraps his hand around Harry’s wrist, and asks him what’s bothering him. They’re the only ones home for a few hours, so he’s been probably waiting to get Harry alone. 

“You’ve been off for the last few days,” he says. “We can all see it. Are you good?”

He nods against his pillow. “Yeah. Fine.”

“Harry.”

And that’s all it takes, really, because Harry does kind of want to show someone what he got Sam. He wants someone else to like it; he’s not planning on giving it to Sam, he’s not. There’s no reason for it to feel like he’s storing a ticking time bomb in his drawer. So, he sits up in bed and stretches down to grab the box from the drawer. Nervously, he smooths over the picture of a fish wearing a cowboy hat and he shows it to Liam. 

“Cool box. What’s it for?”

Harry removes the lid and stays quiet while Liam puts together the pieces. He was at one of Sam’s birthday parties not too many years ago, so he might remember. Maybe. Harry doesn’t want to spell it out. 

“Who’s this for?” Liam asks skeptically. “Did Sam get it for you?” He picks up the small plush dog and looks at it closer. 

“No. No, Liam, it’s. . . it’s Sam’s birthday next month. And I just -- ”

“Harry.” He sounds so sad. 

“I’m not going to give it to him. I just -- I don’t know. Is that bad?”

Liam doesn’t answer that at first. He pats the dog’s head before putting it back in the box and grabbing the gift cards out. He shuffles through the three of them before putting them back down and sighing. “If you’re not giving it to him,” he says slowly, “I don’t see any harm done.”

Validation is always something Harry’s craved, so it feels nice to hear. 

“You know,” Liam says, putting the lid back on the box. “My birthday is next month, too. Suppose you don’t have a box in there for me, too.” He’s grinning, so Harry knows he’s only joking. 

“Not yet. I don’t know what to get you yet.”

His smile dissolves, then, and he reaches over to squeeze Harry’s knee. “Don’t go back to him and that’ll be about the best present anyone’s ever got me.”

It should be simple, but Harry ends up unable to meet that request.

-

Louis kisses him again three days before Sam’s birthday. (And that’s how Harry’s been living this entire month; twenty days until his birthday, ten days until his birthday, five, four. . .) They’re at a club that Harry would have most definitely turned down if he knew that’s where they were headed. He doesn’t cause a fuss, though, because he’s drunk enough that he doesn’t really mind it. They drank at the flat before they headed out, so nothing really shocks Harry, including Louis kissing him.

They’re dancing together. Grinding. It didn’t start like that; Liam, Niall, Zayn and Gigi were all with them only a half hour ago. Zayn and Gigi were the first to disappear into the crowd, which was to be expected. Niall left to get another drink about twenty minutes ago and hasn’t come back. And Liam snuck off to the bathroom with a young pretty girl a few minutes before Niall left, so it’s just Louis and Harry. It didn’t start becoming a little less innocent until someone bumped into Harry and he bumped into Louis, and it was electric, being that close to him. To anybody again. Harry keeps cutting off all thoughts that lead to Louis specifically by generalizing what he’s feeling. He’s not just in the mood for sex with Louis, he’s in the mood for sex with anyone. Louis isn’t the only one that looks good tonight. He’d be grinding with anyone right now, it doesn’t have to mean anything because it’s Louis. 

But it _is_ Louis. Louis, his roommate and second closest friend in the house, is grinding back into him with his head thrown back against his shoulder and his hands dancing over Harry’s. Harry’s hands are placed firmly on his hips, keeping Louis against him. It stopped feeling as innocent and nonchalant when Harry started to get hard about five minutes ago, but Louis just laughed breathlessly and kissed his jaw as a response. It isn’t anything inherently dirty. It feels more pure with the way Louis asks him every time something changes if he’s fine. 

He’s seen Louis and Zayn grind together like this before. It’s really not that big of a deal. Now, though, he knows how Louis feels close to him like this, and that’s most certainly a big deal. Because he’s horny and lonely and Louis feels good. Anybody would feel good like this. But when Louis tips up his head and turns to look at Harry, looking absolutely drenched in lust and alcohol, Harry is almost certain that Louis hasn’t kissed Zayn before. Although maybe he has, because he kisses Harry like it’s the easiest thing in the world. 

The angle is awkward, which they both immediately move to remedy. Once they’re pressed against each other chest to chest, Louis presses another kiss to his lips pulling back, setting his hand on Harry’s jaw, and stroking his thumb across his cheekbone. Harry’s fingers dig into Louis’ hips before he remembers how he doesn’t like that himself, so he loosens his grip. Sam always left bruises doing that, and Harry doesn’t want to leave marks that Louis won’t like. 

“Good?” Louis asks. For a moment, Harry thinks that it’s unfair and wrong for Louis to always be the only one to make sure they’re on the same page, but he doesn’t dwell on it long before ducking down to kiss Louis again. It's a good enough response.

They fall apart quickly from there: they both start to really sweat from the bodies surrounding them and each other, and the kiss grows sloppy and wet, and Louis moves Harry’s hands down to his bum, which -- yeah, Louis Tomlinson has a gorgeous bum, and apparently he knows it, too. When someone bumps into Harry yet again, he accidentally catches Louis’ bottom lip with his teeth. He’s about to apologize profusely until Louis lets out a tiny little moan at that, and so Harry just silently curses and continues kissing him some more. 

Neither of them are particularly steering the kiss. It’s a team-effort. And like last time, Louis’ hand on Harry’s neck isn’t rough or aggressive, it’s reassuring and protective. It actually feels like Harry has some control and say in this, and he hasn’t felt that in years. It both thrills and terrifies him. 

After some time, Louis pulls away from him, breathless. He stays close, though, and after he laughs brightly he sets his forehead on Harry’s shoulder. Harry’s hands go back to Louis’ hips, unsure of his footing. 

“We could go somewhere,” Louis says, panting. “We could -- fuck, I want you. Do you want to go somewhere?”

“Like where?”

Before Louis can answer that, someone’s flying into Louis’ back this time. Harry curls a protective arm around his waist, holding him close, until he realizes that it’s just Niall, completely drunk. 

“Hey, come on,” he says, grabbing Louis’ wrist in one hand with a drink in the other. “Liam’s got come on his pants and I can’t think of anything that’ll embarrass him properly. Lou, we need you.”

Louis laughs again, but not as brightly as he did with Harry. He lets himself be tugged away from Harry, and for a second, he feels a bit abandoned and dumb. And then Louis grabs his wrist, tugging him along, too, and he forgets about everything else.

Somehow, though, an hour after the kiss and a minute after midnight, Harry’s eyes find a clock and he thinks, _Two more days._

When they get back to the flat, Harry can hardly walk on his own and Liam helps him to bed. He plops him down, gathers his limbs and gets them situated on the bed, and covers him with the blanket. 

“So glad I won’t have to deal with your hungover ass tomorrow,” Liam says as a goodnight. He pats Harry’s cheek and leaves. A few minutes later, Louis comes to bed, and it’s like he comes with a giant, neon sign above his head that says, _Fuck, I want you_. Harry wants him, too. Right now. He wants anyone. He sits up as best as he can and looks at Louis. 

“Louis,” he says, his drunkenness evident in his voice. “Do you want -- we can,” he groans quietly. “We’re somewhere now.”

“You are far too drunk for that, Young Harold.” He smiles at him from across the room and Harry just stares at him until Louis shuts off the lamp, and then he keeps staring at his blackened shape. “Could cuddle, if you want.”

Harry couldn’t find it in him to stand less than a minute ago, but he manages to do so now. He nearly brains himself when his foot gets caught in the blanket and he falls forward, but he fortunately doesn’t, and then he’s in Louis’ warm, warm bed and then his warm, warm arms. Louis cuddles into his back and Harry lets himself be held, lets himself feel how good this is.

“Hey, Lou?” he says after a few minutes. Louis hums against his shoulder. “Turn the fairy lights on, would you?”

Louis snorts. “Knew I picked the right roommate.” He gets his arm out from under Harry to reach behind him and click on the right switch, and then the room is flooded with a soft, pale-golden glow. 

“Good?” Louis asks once he’s situated against Harry again. 

Harry nods, resisting the urge to close his eyes. He just wants to keep staring at the lights. “They look like Christmas lights,” he slurs quietly, his eyes fluttering. 

“Sure, H. Go to sleep, okay?”

Harry has a dream about Sam tonight, and it’s a very, very good one. 

-

On August nineteenth, Harry knows he’s going to see Sam today. 

At least, he hopes he is. He thought about it all last night, when he was trying very hard to not think about it. Sam has his birthday dinner at the same pub every year, and if Harry goes, then nothing that bad could happen. A bunch of people would be around, so Sam couldn’t pick a fight. If he did, Harry could just leave. It’s going to be fine. It’s going to be -- yeah. It’s fine. And every thought that’s screaming at him that it is very much not fine, every phantom pain running across his skin as a reminder, he pushes that down. This isn’t about him, it’s about Sam. It’s about Sam’s _birthday_. 

He forces himself to act completely normal throughout the day. He eats breakfast with Liam and Niall. He takes an afternoon nap with Louis sprawled out on the couch. He plays video games with the boys when he wakes up. And then, at five, he starts getting ready for a ‘job interview.’ It’s the only believable lie he could come up with; he’s been putting in applications for months now, and he’s gone on a few interviews, so this won’t be that weird. If things go well and he comes home late, then he’ll say it went well, so he went to the pub for a quick drink to celebrate and he ran into that girl that was looking at him a while back. He’s ninety-nine percent sure nobody will doubt him. 

Harry’s completely anxious when it’s time to pick out what to wear. He wants to wear skinny jeans for Sam, but Sam also hated him in tight-fitting clothing. Called him a whore more times than Harry probably remembers. So he picks a pair of jeans that do good for his body, yet don’t hug him too tightly, and moves on to picking out a shirt. After going through nearly every shirt in his closet and thinking something negative Sam could say about it, he settles for a nice black button-down shirt. 

After he’s dressed, he’s mentally exhausted and spending time in front of the mirror critiquing every little thing about himself isn’t helping. It should be a huge reminder for him that it’s not worth it, that Sam has hurt him so much before and he will do it again, but Harry tells himself that it will be different this time. 

He wears a bulky coat that’ll hide the gift box well, and when his taxi arrives, he says goodbye to the boys with a smile. 

“You look good, Haz,” Louis tells him as he walks past. “Good luck, mate. You deserve it.”

Harry beams at him. The validation is enough to make him ecstatic, and his words soothe the doubt in his brain. He does deserve this. And no, he’s not delusional; he knows Louis is wishing him well on a job interview, but it could apply to this, too, right? He tells himself it does. 

Panic doesn’t properly set in until he’s sat in the back of the taxi. Sam’s favorite bar is over a half hour away, so he has a lot of time to reflect, and it makes him nauseous. He feels so stupid. He shouldn’t have come. Sam won’t want to see him, and Harry shouldn’t want to see him either. Harry’s goddamn stupid. But he already got in the taxi, he already bought him a gift. There’s no point in going back now.

Harry’s almost as good at feeding himself lies as Sam was. 

Once he gets to the destination, he doesn’t have time to freak out. The driver asks him to get out of the car, so Harry does, head fuzzy and hands shaking. He stands outside of the pub for as long as he can withstand the heat, and once it’s too much, he heads inside with the box gripped tightly in his hands. 

He feels like he could faint, maybe, or puke as he scans the room for Sam or one of his friends. He scans it quickly once, and when he doesn’t see anyone familiar, he checks again, knowing that the first time was too fast to really see anyone. And the second booth he looks at has Sam and his friend John on one side, and two girls he vaguely recognizes. 

Harry’s too happy to see him to panic as much as he probably should be. He looks good; he has stubble like he shaved two days ago, maybe three. He got a haircut, too, the sides of his dirty blonde hair shorter than usual. He’s wearing a sharp white button-down, and he looks _good_. 

He’s staring when Sam spots him. He looks shocked, like he really can’t believe Harry’s here. Harry stays perfectly still, trying to read the situation. When Sam’s face breaks out in a smile, though, Harry can’t help but do the same. Sam rushes over to him, weaving throughout all the people, and when he’s close enough to, he immediately wraps his arms around Harry tightly, holding him close. He cradles the back of Harry’s head gently, like maybe he’s realized how breakable he is. 

“You came,” he breathes out, and he sounds so fucking _happy_. This is why Harry wanted to come. This -- Sam can’t be faking this. He’s genuinely happy to see Harry, he’s _excited_. That means the world to him. 

Harry presses his face against Sam’s neck and inhales deeply. The scent alone is enough to make most of the bad feelings go away. “I did,” he says, just as breathless. “I just wanted -- happy birthday, Sam.”

“Thank you, sweetheart. Thank you.”

Harry’s heart flutters. 

When Sam steps back, his eyes are filled with tears and sheer _joy_. Harry has the ability to make him feel like that; he never should have left. He shifts his weight to the balls of his feet to make it easier to kiss Sam, but Sam stops him with a gentle hand on his shoulder. 

“I don’t want to rush you,” he says softly, rubbing over Harry’s collarbone. “This is about you this time, okay? Not me.” He presses a long, soft kiss to Harry’s forehead, and when he pulls away, he swipes his finger down Harry’s nose, pulling an even wider smile out of him. 

As Sam guides Harry to his table, he tries to think rationally. That was sweet, what Sam said, but could also be a subtle manipulation tactic. Harry hates to be so paranoid, although it’s for good reason. Sam took control of the situation while making it seem like Harry was the one with it. And he told Harry exactly what he wanted to hear. 

Harry tells him that, either way, it doesn’t matter. It’s just a night out. It’s just one night out. Nothing else matters. 

As the group finishes their dinner (Sam gives the rest of his fries and chicken fingers to Harry), Harry stays off to the side, quiet. He doesn’t want to talk. He just wants to be here, with Sam and in this moment. His phone vibrates about a half hour into being with Sam, and he ignores it easily. Doesn’t think of who it might be. After he’s done eating, he presses himself into Sam’s side, and it feels like he belongs there, especially when Sam puts a hand on his thigh like he doesn’t even think about it. 

They sing him happy birthday and then he opens his gifts. He’s happy throughout the whole thing, but when he gets to Harry’s gift, he smiles the brightest. And again -- _that can’t be faked._ That smile, that spark behind it. It’s _real_. Harry’s not being delusional. After all this time, after what Harry did to them, Sam still loves him and that means something. 

The thought makes him disappointed in himself. The situation wasn’t in any way his fault. But he can’t dwell on it for long because Sam takes his hand and kisses the top of it. 

“Molly has to get going,” he says, looking hopeful. “We can -- maybe me and you can walk around a bit?”

Harry doesn’t like that. He doesn’t want to be alone with him. This -- the pub and the people and the security guard in the corner -- makes him feel safe. Outside, especially at night, he loses all of that. 

He must make a face, because Sam frowns. “You’re scared of me,” he whispers, looking horrified. “You’re -- Hazza. Sweetheart. I’m _so_ sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Harry rushes out, anxiety kicking up in his stomach. Sam hushes him. 

“It’s not,” he says sadly. “I know that it’s not. I know I messed up. For _years,_ I messed up. But I can fix it now, okay? You just have to let me fix it. John and Elanie are going to come with us. They’ll be right behind us. You don’t have to be afraid of me, but if you are, they’ll be right there for comfort.”

Harry smiles softly and wraps his arms around Sam’s shoulders, bringing him closer. If Sam won’t push him out of his comfort zones, this could work. And no, Harry isn’t blind to how quickly he’s falling back into old habits, it’s just. . . certain habits weren’t bad. It’s okay to hug him. It’s okay to comfort him. It’s okay to go on a walk with him, especially when it’s his _birthday_.

As they head outside, Sam keeps a firm hand on Harry’s lower back, guiding him. He carries his coat. He opens the door for him. And Harry _missed_ this. Missed him. He doesn’t regret coming, not at all, and he hopes it stays that way. 

After they put Sam’s gifts and Harry’s coat in the car, John and Elanie start walking off into the night, hand in hand. It only feels right to follow suit, and Sam’s hand enveloping his is all he’s been craving these last few months. At first, they walk together quietly. The area around the pub is nice, decorated with trees and street lights and flowers that are vibrant even in the night. Eventually, Sam squeezes his hand and Harry glances away from the scenery to look at him. 

“How have you been?” Sam asks carefully. He looks anxious, like he doesn’t want to mess this up. Harry hopes and prays he doesn’t mess this up. 

“Okay,” he says. “How about you?”

Sam laughs darkly. “A wreck,” he says, ducking his head to hide his face. He squeezes Harry’s hand again as he says, “I’ve missed you. So much.”

Guilt tears through Harry’s heart. “I’ve missed you, too, Sam. I’m sorry for leaving like that. I’m -- yeah. I’ve missed you, too. A lot.”

“You shouldn’t have.”

“Don’t say that,” Harry pleads, grabbing Sam’s arm gently. Sam responds by gently laying his hand on top of Harry’s wrist. He strokes the skin there gently. 

“I’m sorry for hurting you,” he says quietly. “I didn’t mean it.” He leans down to kiss his wrist, his right wrist, and Harry frowns slightly. If he’s so sorry, the least he could have done is remember it was the left one that he broke. Still, Harry doesn’t correct him. He wouldn’t dare.

“It healed,” Harry says, kind of awkwardly, putting his right arm back by his side. 

“You look good tonight,” Sam says. “I mean, you look good every day of your life, but especially tonight. You look pretty.”

Harry blushes madly. “Thanks. You, too.”

“Guess we’re just a good looking couple then, huh?” Sam asks, grinning, and it makes Harry’s heart _soar_ , being referred to as a couple again. It’s. . . Harry knows he’s falling into the same exact trap he did the first time, but it _feels_ different. And he’s desperately craving the stability and security Sam used to provide for him. If things get bad again -- which they _won’t_ \-- he could just leave. He did it once, he can do it again. 

His smile falls a bit and he bites his lip. Maybe it wasn’t a good idea coming here. Clearly, Harry can’t take small steps with Sam. He’s already thinking about getting back together with him and moving back in with him, and that’s -- no. That’s absurd. And he wouldn’t just leave, he can’t be so foolish. It took him _years_ last time to gain the courage.

“I think we need to start fresh,” Sam tells him. “I think it’d be good for us both to start completely new. Could you do that? Forget all the rough stuff?”

 _Yes_ , he wants to say. _Yes, of course. For you, anything_. But he thinks of how disappointed Liam and Louis would already be in him. Liam would be furious, and Louis would be sad. He doesn’t know which is worse. He needs to be smart about his, for himself and for them. “No,” he says quietly. So quietly. His heart rate picks up as he stares at the ground, away from Sam. 

“Why not, sweetheart?”

“Because then you’ll just do it again.” Harry’s voice sounds thick and shaky, which he absolutely hates but can’t do anything to stop. “You’ll -- Sam. We can’t pretend none of the bad stuff happened.” But Sam is already managing to do that a bit, isn’t he, by setting the precedent of them referring to the physical and mental abuse and the -- and the _that,_ the bad sex, as _rough stuff._ He won’t say what it was in the hopes that Harry doesn’t think it’s that bad.

“I will never hurt you again, Harry.”

He sounds so serious that it makes Harry’s head spin. 

“Okay,” Harry says, voice still shaky. “But we can’t -- just because you won’t again, that doesn’t mean you haven’t before. If we want to fix this, we can’t just pretend like everything is fine between us.”

He’s a little proud of himself for saying all that, until Sam stops in his tracks and fear all but eats him alive. He jerks away from Sam, turning to protect himself, terrified that he’s about to get hit. This fear is giving Sam the power still. Sam still has all the power, no matter how hard Harry tries to speak up for himself. 

“Harry,” Sam says softly. “Harry, don’t be scared.”

Harry turns his head to face him again, eyes watery and heart racing. And Sam doesn’t _look_ scary. He doesn’t look like he’s going to hit Harry, or even like he wants to. When Harry finally looks at him, Sam slowly raises his hand up to cradle his cheek, and Harry leans against it, sniffling quietly. He feels so pathetic. He’s -- God, he’s stupid. He’s so stupid. A minute ago he was proud of himself for setting boundaries, but right now it’s very clear that there are none. It’d just be a matter of time before things started getting bad again. And Harry won’t -- he _can’t_ \-- be hurt again during sex. The other stuff, maybe he could handle, but not that again. Never again. 

Louis touched him so softly, so carefully. Louis touched him like he cared. And here Harry is, practically melting in Sam’s arms. Does it really matter that Sam is touching him gently now if Harry knows what his hands can really do?

He’s so confused. 

“Don’t think I’d be stupid enough to mess this up twice,” Sam whispers, stroking his thumb over his jaw. “You can trust me, love. You can trust me this time. I couldn’t take losing you twice.”

“I don’t know,” Harry says, pained. His ring finger is pressed against Sam’s pulse point on his wrist, and it’s comforting him. That’s enough to comfort him. _Why_ did Sam have to complicate this so much? They could have been fucking perfect together. 

“That’s okay.”

That confuses him. That confuses him a lot. And it shouldn’t be so fucking shocking to hear your significant other -- _ex-_ significant other give you a choice in something. That should tell Harry all he needs to know, but instead of focusing on that, he’s focusing on the warmth of Sam’s hand and his pulse and how deeply _heartbroken_ he looks. 

Harry trained himself to ignore the bad. Maybe that’s what is happening now. 

“That’s okay, lovely,” Sam repeats. “You don’t have to know right now. You don’t have to give me anything you don’t want to. I’ll be better, and I’ll prove it to you, and if that’s still not enough for you. . . Then I guess I’ll just have to accept that.”

“You promise?” Harry croaks out, like Sam’s word has ever meant anything before. 

“I promise.”

It shouldn’t mean anything. _It should not mean a damn thing_. But Harry’s desperate and clutching at straws, so it’s enough. Yet again, he accepts Sam’s bad behavior because he’s sad and lonely and misses him. Sam asks if he can hug him, and Harry says yes through tears, and then they’re hugging in the middle of the sidewalk. It feels _perfect_. 

John and Elanie aren’t in front of them anymore, which should be enough for Harry to demand they go somewhere busier, but all he does is sit on a nearby park bench with Sam for two more hours. Talking and laughing and holding hands, like nothing ever happened. Like Harry wasn’t genuinely scared for his life a few months back. 

By the time Harry says he should get going, the street lights aren’t doing much to fight the dark and his phone has vibrated countless times by now. He feels _euphoric_. Sam does, too, by the looks of it. 

“Let me drive you home,” Sam says, rubbing his hand over Harry’s arm. He had gotten a little cold about a half hour ago, and since Harry’s jacket is in the car, Sam gave him his. 

Harry smiles apologetically. “I don’t think so. I can take a taxi back.”

“Then let me wait with you.”

“Okay,” Harry agrees. He pulls out his phone from his jeans pocket to see a few texts from both Liam and Louis and one from Niall. None of them seem worried, just curious, so Harry doesn’t find it in himself to feel bad. He calls himself a taxi while Sam sits there, petting his arm and looking fond. When he hangs up, Sam sits up a bit. 

“I realized you didn’t get me a card with the gift,” Sam says slowly, reaching up to run his fingers through the side of Harry’s hair. “It’s fine, and I loved the gift, just. . . usually you get me a card.”

It’s true; Harry always spends a lot of time on cards, writing probably too much. It just didn’t feel right this time. If he had written Sam a card, he couldn’t have lied to himself as easily that he wouldn’t be coming tonight. 

“Didn’t know what to write, is all.”

Sam nods. “How about. . . how about this.”

He lifts up from the bench to grab a napkin from the pub out of his back pocket. He smooths it out before reaching inside of the pocket of his coat that Harry’s wearing and grabbing a pen. Harry feels himself blush for no real reason. He watches carefully as Sam writes out, _To new beginnings and second chances x._

Harry stares down at it for a few seconds before nodding. He smiles slowly, using that to soothe all his anxieties. When Sam tucks the napkin into the coat pocket, Harry’s smile widens and he hides it against Sam’s shoulder. 

When Harry’s taxi pulls up across the street, they stand. He goes to take Sam’s coat off, but Sam shakes his head. 

“Keep it,” he says, smoothing over the leather. “I have yours, you have mine. Gives me an excuse to see you again.”

Harry just can’t seem to stop smiling. “You don’t need an excuse for that,” he says, and Sam grins, too. It feels obvious, then, that this is the time that they would have kissed in the past. They’ve been kissing since their first date, so changing that now seems wrong. Sam doesn’t even ask for one, though. He grabs Harry’s hand and kisses the top of it before squeezing it and letting him go. 

“Have a good night, babe.”

“You too. And happy birthday again.”

Sam nods. “It is.”

Harry gives him one last smile before crossing the street to his taxi, all the while hugging the coat shut across his chest. After he gets in the taxi and tells the driver the address, he looks down at his lap and bursts into a smile. This the best he’s felt in _months_. That can’t mean nothing. Second chances, and all that. He brushes his fingers over the napkin before grabbing his phone and reading his texts. 

Louis asked if he wanted anything from McDonald’s. When he didn’t respond, Louis said he bought him a pop, some nuggets and a burger. When Harry yet again didn’t respond, about an hour later, Louis said his food is on the top shelf for when he gets in. 

Niall’s text is just a reminder to put anything he needs on the shopping list before he goes to the store tomorrow.

Liam’s texts are more ominous than that. _Hey, call me._ The first one reads. The second: _Just stay safe, okay?_

 _He knows_ , Harry thinks frantically before stopping himself. There is no way he could have figured it out. Harry needs to stop being so paranoid. It’s fine, everything’s fine. Seeing Sam was amazing and he’s not going to ruin this good night. So, to keep himself in good spirits, he unblocks Sam’s number. It makes him feel so goddamn giddy, just like he had felt when he was younger and preening under Sam’s attention. And making parallels to then and now shouldn’t be comforting to him, not in the slightest, but it is anyway. 

_To new beginnings and second chances x_ , he texts him. He stares at the screen with a huge grin on his face, feeling lighter than he has in months. 

Sam’s text comes through a few minutes before Harry gets home. _I’ll be holding my breath til I see you next my sweetheart xx._ It makes Harry smile again -- God, his cheeks hurt. 

_Hope it isn’t too long then xx_ he sends back, biting on his bottom lip. 

He reads Sam’s next text as he walks up the stairs to their flat. _You’re a dream_ , it says. 

When he gets it, all the lights are out aside from the kitchen one. He quickly spots Liam at the kitchen table doing something on his laptop. Harry quietly shuts the door and takes his shoes off before walking to the kitchen and greeting Liam. There’s a war going on his head right now, between wanting _someone_ to tell about the great night he had and feeling completely guilty and stupid for going. 

“You didn’t leave wearing that coat,” Liam says in response to Harry’s hello. Harry furrows his eyebrows at him but doesn’t say anything as he goes to the fridge. He can’t think of a good enough lie to cover that up, so not saying anything is what has to be done. He grabs the McDonald’s from the fridge with _Harry_ scribbled on the front of it in Louis’ handwriting. 

Harry’s leaning against the kitchen counter, waiting for his food to finish re-heating, when Liam says, “You saw him tonight, didn’t you.”

It’s not a question, so Harry doesn’t see the point in giving it an answer. 

“It _is_ his birthday,” Liam continues. “And I _know_ you didn’t leave in that coat.”

“Just don’t tell anyone else,” Harry says quietly, fumbling with his hands. His phone vibrates in his pocket, and his stomach jumps knowing that it’s Sam. He should answer it. Right now, he should answer. Sam doesn’t like waiting for him. But things are supposed to be different right now. Sam said he could be trusted this time. He wipes his hands against his pants and repeats, “Don’t tell anyone. Don’t tell Louis.”

“Why, because you’ve been leading him on for months?”

Harry whips up his head to look at Liam, eyes wide and anger coursing through his veins. “I have _not_ been. Don’t say that. I don’t want you telling him because _you_ dragged him into my business and I don’t want him involved.”

Liam snorts, shaking his head. “He’s already involved, Harry. He got involved when you kissed him that night we were all drinking. If you want to abandon whatever you had going for you there for Sam, so be it, but I won’t let you lie about it.”

Harry rolls his eyes, ignoring the stinging in them. Before the microwave can go off, he steps forward and stops it. He takes his food out and sets it on the counter, suddenly feeling too sick to eat.

“You’re not thinking right,” Liam tells him sadly. “You’re not -- H. You’re acting like a lovesick fool.”

“And _you’re_ interrogating me like the man you’re trying to warn me about,” Harry snaps, turning to glare at him. _That_ shuts Liam up, as it should. Liam has no business poking his nose in his relationship. 

He grabs his plate and drink and sits in the living room. The flat is small, so Liam and Harry are still well within talking distance of each other, but Harry doesn’t want to wake Louis by moving about in their room. He pulls out his phone to respond to Sam’s text of, _I hope you had a good night tonight love. I know I did._

“Will you please talk to me about this?” Liam asks a few minutes later. Harry just shakes his head like a petulant child, and Liam sighs. “So is the shutting out your friends thing going to start again now, or should I wait a few weeks for that to kick back in?”

It makes Harry feel insanely guilty. 

“He said it’s going to be different this time,” Harry says quietly, not looking up from the plate. He knows how stupid it sounds as he says it out loud. Sam said that to him every time Harry got a little too worked up about whatever happened. _I’ll be better, I promise. Just give me a chance._ And then he'd be better for a day, maybe two, before everything went to shit again. 

“Of course he did. He wouldn’t just admit to you now that he will go back to his old ways the minute he thinks you’ll let him.”

Tears grow in his eyes and Harry fiddles with the end of his sleeves, of Sam’s sleeves, to try and calm himself down. “He was nice to me,” he says, voice croaky. “He was -- it felt like the beginning of our relationship again. He was good to me.”

“The beginning of your relationship is when he groomed you to trust him and love him above everything else. He spent that time methodically manipulating and isolating you. If tonight looked or felt like any of that, that’s a bad sign, Harry.”

Harry doesn’t say anything, because he knows that Liam is right. That doesn’t necessarily take away from how good of a night he had with Sam, and it doesn’t inherently mean Sam has bad intentions this time around but. . . Harry missed the warning signs the first time. He can’t do it again. 

Liam gets up from the table to sit with him on the couch. He bumps his knee with his own and gives him a small smile. “Just. You still act the same around him as you did before, don’t you? Even after all this time apart?”

“I set more boundaries this time,” he says quickly, feeling like he has that to fall back on as a good thing. And Liam looks so sad, _so_ sad, and Harry knows he’s not fooling anyone. “I guess,” he says, looking back down at his lap.

“And you were taught how to be scared over a handful of years. He’s known how to be scary his entire life, probably. If you fell back into an old routine, why wouldn’t he?” He squeezes Harry’s arm comfortingly. “He might love you. He might. And I know you love him. But Hazza. . .”

“I know,” Harry says, feeling miserable. He doesn’t want to hear Liam say it. He says it anyway. 

“Love doesn’t change what he did to you. It doesn’t make it any better. If anything, it makes it worse. Love isn’t worth coming at the expense of your safety and well-being.”

Harry’s phone vibrates again. Immediately, his hand goes to grab for his phone, but Liam intercepts it gently, squeezing his fingers lightly. 

“I felt so good tonight, Liam.” His voice comes out wobbly. “I felt the best I have in _months_.”

“Because he taught you to only feel good with him. Because you were basically trained to always report back to him, and when you didn’t for months, that probably made you anxious and worried. Seeing him tonight might’ve felt good, but that won’t make the pain later on any better.”

Tears threaten to pour over, so Harry shakes his head and moves his hand from Liam’s. He sniffles, wipes his nose with the back of his hand, and grabs for his drink. “I don’t want to talk,” he says, shaking his head again. “I just want to eat and go to sleep. I just want tonight to stay good.”

“Okay,” Liam says sadly. “Okay, Harry.”

Harry doesn’t check his phone until he’s in bed, the covers pulled up to his chin. Sam has texted him twice now. _I think I’ll be able to sleep easy for the first time in months,_ is the first. _I hope you will be able to, too. Sweet dreams, sweetheart. Thank you for everything. You mean the world to me._

And Harry can’t give that up again. He can’t. 

-

How quickly Harry gets sucked back into things is pathetic. He tries his best to stay away, to keep boundaries and call Sam out when he catches him being controlling or manipulative, to meet up with him in public places only, but within a month, they’re sitting in Sam’s flat. Harry won’t let Sam call it _their flat,_ it’s just Sam’s. And he also told Sam that he texted Liam saying where he was so if he tried anything --

“What on earth would I try, Harry?” Sam asked, horrified. “I wouldn’t -- Harry. I’ve changed. I told you that.”

Harry squeezed his hand. “Then you’ll be okay with me letting Liam know where I am when I’m alone with you.”

“Yeah, of course,” Sam said, but he didn’t exactly look happy about it. 

Now, they’re cuddled up together on the couch, completely melted into one another. Sam’s half asleep with his head on Harry’s chest, and Harry’s in complete bliss. It feels like nothing bad could ever happen again. 

Liam’s still the only one that knows that Harry is talking to Sam again. Louis and Niall just assume he’s picking up more hours at work, and neither Harry or Liam correct them on it. Harry was afraid that going out with Sam three, four, five times a week would be suspicious, but Louis and Niall don’t pay that close attention to what Harry does. They don’t need to know where he is all the time. They don’t think he’s lying. They aren’t Sam. 

As their time together increases, the “new” Sam and the “old” Sam slowly start to merge. Not terribly. Not in a bad way, necessarily. It just becomes increasingly obvious that this cheery, forgiving, changed person Sam is most of the time is a front. And Harry told himself that it was okay, that it didn’t mean anything, and if it did, it wouldn’t matter because he was never alone with Sam, but, well. Here he is. Very much alone with him. Sam cancelled their original plans to catch a movie because he felt too sick, so Harry reluctantly came over instead after Sam kept saying that he was sorry and felt terrible about cancelling and that he still wanted to see Harry. 

There haven’t been any objectively bad warning signs yet. There’s been times that Sam gets a bit too clingy or controlling, but Harry does his best to call that out politely and ask for that to stop. And Sam’s been _listening_ , he _has_. That has to count for something. 

He’s thinking too much, so he runs his fingers through the hairs at the back of Sam’s neck gently. Sam hums, his hand sliding under Harry’s shirt to rest on his stomach as a response. They haven’t had sex yet, although he doesn’t think that’s what Sam is after right now. Harry doesn’t know if it makes him crazy or weak or just dumb to want that with him still. After what he did, many times. Every time he thinks about it, it makes his whole body go hot with fear, but that’s. . . There were a lot of good times, too. A lot of times where Harry felt amazing. 

After about a half hour, Sam gets up to go to the bathroom. When he comes back, Harry’s knees are spread apart as he texts Niall about some golf tournament going on. Sam crawls in-between his legs and waits patiently for Harry to put his phone down, but he doesn’t ask him to. He doesn’t demand that he does. He just waits. So Harry tests the waters a bit by taking his time on his phone with the only attention he gives to Sam being that he grabs his hand and squeezes. And when Sam doesn’t get mad or demand to know who he’s texting, it’s further evidence to say that maybe Sam really has changed. Harry puts his phone down after about two minutes and wraps his arms around Sam’s shoulders, pulling him closer for a kiss. They’ve kissed before, in this past month. Plenty of times. It’s usually just been a peck, but sometimes they’ve kissed for a few minutes. Right now, though, Harry wouldn’t mind going all the way. He communicates that by deepening the kiss, and immediately, Sam pulls away. 

“We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to,” he says, looking worried. He’s looking Harry straight in the eye like he’s trying to actually see if he wants this or not. That shouldn’t make him feel so loved. Consent is not something that should feel special, it should just _be._ Always, no matter what. But Harry’s fucked in the head, apparently. That’s the only explanation he can think of why it turns him on so much, Sam asking if he’s okay with sex for the first time in years. 

Louis asked him for his consent every single time he changed something about what they were doing, and they weren’t even doing anything that huge. Every single time, Louis made sure they were on the same page. Harry doesn’t really know what to do with this thought, it just appears. 

“I want this with you,” Harry tells him, sliding his hand from the back of Sam’s neck to his shoulder. “I want this, I do. And I appreciate you immensely for asking me.”

“Of course.”

“Just be gentle, okay?” Harry whispers, shame coursing through his body. He shouldn’t want this. He should not want this, what the fuck is wrong with him? Sam did things to him that he can’t even say, Harry still can’t even say it to himself, but here Harry is, offering his body out to him again. That’s _fucked_. _He’s_ fucked. His hand starts to feel shaky, so he presses it firmer against Sam. “Take your time with me. Please. I don’t -- it doesn’t need to hurt.”

“It won’t,” Sam says, crowding back into his space. His breath fans over Harry’s lips, and it makes his heart start to really race. “I promise, H. I’ll make you feel so good.” He kisses Harry, then, soft and gentle. So gentle. It feels so nice, and Harry almost loses himself in it. Almost. 

“Wait,” he says after he’s pulled off from Sam. Sam doesn’t look annoyed. He doesn’t look annoyed at all, he looks concerned and patient and trusting. This can’t all be a front. “We just -- we have to talk. About, like. About what I like and don’t like.”

“Okay. Go for it.”

Maybe if Harry had done this sooner, had used his fucking voice, things wouldn’t have played out the way they did. Or maybe that’s what Sam wants, him questioning himself. 

“Don’t call me mean things,” Harry says, voice breaking. He tries to look away from Sam, it’s too hard, but Sam gently grabs his chin and doesn’t let him break eye contact. “Don’t -- please don’t hit me or spank me or tie me up or anything like that. Please. Please, I just -- I want it to feel good. Really good. For both of us. Please.”

“I’ll take good care of you, baby. Promise.”

And he _does_. Sam kisses him for what feels like hours, and then he makes his way down his body, kissing him everywhere and pausing to leave marks that he asks permission to. He touches and licks and fingers him so softly, so, so softly. It makes Harry want to _cry,_ and then he actually does, which makes Sam worried but Harry reassures him that everything’s good. Everything’s _great_. 

Everything is fantastic, but it doesn’t hide the fact that Sam tries to get Harry to say ‘I love you’ back almost the entire time. He says it into Harry’s skin, against his lips, as he’s fucking him. _I love you, I love you, I love you._ And afterwards, when Sam’s cuddling him so sweetly that it makes Harry feel comfortable enough to fall asleep here, he says it again, his lips against Harry’s shoulder. 

It’s not an inherently bad thing, Sam wanting him to say it back. Sam’s probably got insecurities of his own, too. Maybe he’s worried Harry doesn’t love him anymore. But Harry isn’t completely ready to say it back. It’s the one thing he still has to himself, one piece of -- of leverage, you could say, above Sam. It sounds awful, but if Sam wants something from him, he’s more likely to keep being nice. 

So, instead of saying it back just yet, Harry whispers, “You’re my favorite person in this entire world, Sam.”

Sam smiles against his skin. 

-

Louis finds out that Harry’s seeing Sam again two and half months into it. It’s a Monday evening, Niall’s on his fourth hour of a “nap” and the rest of them are in the living room, chatting quietly about the TV program that’s on. Harry keeps grabbing for his phone, keeps texting and texting. He doesn’t realize Louis connects the dots until Liam goes to the bathroom and Louis clears his throat. 

“You’re talking to him again, aren’t you?”

Harry freezes, eyes flying up from his phone to look at Louis, who looks incredibly sad. He sets his phone down and barely gets the word, “Who?” out before Louis shakes his head. 

“Don’t act dumb with me. You know who I’m talking about. Sam.”

Harry bites harshly on his bottom lip and glances down at his hands in his lap. He should’ve told him sooner. Should’ve told him any of the times Louis crawled into his bed and cuddled with him, even if that is platonic. 

“How long?” Louis asks.

Harry shrugs jerkily. “Few months.”

“ _Months?”_ Louis asks, shocked. “Are you -- Harry. You’re not seeing him again, are you?”

Harry closes his eyes, the tension too much. He hates feeling ashamed for being with someone that makes him feel good. Still, Sam has yet to do anything that is undeniably cruel. They haven’t even had a fight yet. 

“Are you at least being safe?”

Harry nods, eyes fluttering open. 

“Good. You aren’t staying alone with him, aren’t getting into his car, aren’t. . .” he trails off, most likely because Harry can _feel_ the face he’s making. “Have you gone home with him?”

“Yes.”

“ _Harry._ ”

“He’s good to me,” Harry rushes out. “He’s -- Louis. He’s good to me. He’s so good to me now. We talked about it, about everything, and he -- ”

“What, he said he abused you?” Louis asks incredulously. “Did he really say that, did he really take accountability for it, or did he skirt around it?”

“He’s good to me,” he repeats, feeling so pathetic. 

“I can’t believe you.” 

He doesn’t sound angry, which is the awful part. Just really upset. 

“Some people don’t make it out of that alive, you know,” Louis says slowly. “Some people -- a _lot_ of people die by the hands of people they would say were once _good to them_. And you’re willingly going back. You acknowledged you are a victim, something people struggle to do so for years, but then you go back within _months_.”

“Don’t shame me. Don’t you dare do that.”

Harry doesn’t sound angry, either. Just scared. 

“I’m just trying to understand.”

“It’s not your relationship to understand.”

Louis makes a face. “Oh, so you’re back in a _relationship._ You really are back with him. After he called the cops on you. He could’ve ruined your life with that, you know. After he told your mum that you had severe mental illnesses and -- ”

Fortunately for Harry, Liam comes out of the bathroom then and back into the living room. Louis falls silent, probably assuming Liam doesn’t know. 

Five minutes pass before Louis’ blurting, “Harry’s back with Sam.”

Liam looks shocked. Harry glares fiercely at Louis. 

“He already fucking knows,” he snaps, standing up. “And if he didn’t, that’s not your fucking business to tell. Fuck you.”

He leaves the room, even though it feels like the impact of it is lessened due to the fact that he and Louis share the room. His first instinct is to just leave and head to Sam’s, but he doesn’t act on it. Going over there while he’s angry probably isn’t the best idea, and besides, he can’t get back into the habit of relying on Sam to fix his problems any more than he already has. Doesn’t mean he can’t text him, though. 

As Harry texts Sam asking what he’s doing, the conversation between Liam and Louis in the living room starts to get a little loud. Loud enough for Harry to clearly hear what they’re saying, even with the door shut. Louis’ saying that he shouldn’t have just let him get back with Sam, and Liam’s saying that it wasn’t really his choice, was it. It feels wrong, like their opinions have flip-flopped. Months ago, Louis was the one saying Liam couldn’t just force Harry to stay away, that it didn’t work like that. Harry doesn’t know what changed either of their minds. All he knows is that he feels stupid, like a rebellious teenager who has done something reckless and now their parents are arguing about it. It’s after Louis shouts, “And what do we do if Sam kills him, huh?” when Niall comes into the room, looking tired and with two Nintendo Switches in his hand, one that's his and one that’s Liam’s. 

“Do you wanna play Mario with me?” he asks, sitting on Harry’s bed. He doesn’t wait for a response before he pulls the blankets over him and hands him Liam’s device. He sits up and takes it, leaning against the wall like Niall is. 

For a while, even as Liam and Louis’ argument fizzles out and reignites multiple times, Niall doesn’t put his two cents in. Harry appreciates it immensely, although he also understands why he does bring it up after a while. 

“I don’t feel like you need to hear my opinion about it,” he starts, not looking up from the game. “I know the least, and clearly you have two very loud opinions to handle already. Just. . . I think you know what the right thing to do is. And I know you know that sometimes the right thing isn’t the easiest.”

Getting back with Sam is the easy thing to do, Niall’s right, which also makes it the wrong choice probably. Harry knows that it isn’t the smartest or most reliable choice, too. But that doesn’t necessarily make it wrong, does it? He doesn’t know, and it doesn’t seem like Niall needs an answer, so he doesn’t give him one.

It’s only a matter of time before Louis comes into the room. It’s been about two hours since Harry left the living room, and Niall went into the living room twenty minutes ago to get food and play video games. When Louis comes in, he looks upset. He looks like he could continue fighting about it. Instead, he plops into bed next to Harry and cuddles into his back, his arms snaking around his waist and pulling him closer. Harry, who immediately closes out of the messaging app since he was texting Sam, just lays there. Anything he can say sounds stupid and pointless, even in his head. 

“I just don’t want you getting hurt,” he says, voice muffled against Harry’s back. “I don’t want him to ruin you completely. In case you haven’t noticed, I quite like having you around.” The last sentence is spoken like a secret; it makes Harry’s skin crawl.

“I won’t let him hurt me again, Louis. I promise you, I’ll be careful.”

Louis makes an unhappy noise. “You shouldn’t be with someone you have to be careful with.”

And Louis’ right -- objectively, he’s right -- so Harry stays quiet and shuts his eyes. He doesn’t mean to fall asleep, but Louis’ warmth takes him under. 

-

They have their first argument four months into seeing each other again. They’re driving to Sam’s flat after grabbing a bite to eat for lunch, and it’s one thing after another, like suddenly Sam can’t take being passive anymore. 

It starts because Harry cancels a date they had planned for tomorrow. He has a job interview -- for real, this time -- but it doesn’t end there. 

“I don’t get why you need a job,” he says. He isn’t angry yet. “I told you, I’ll pay for whatever you need.”

“And I told _you_ that I don’t feel comfortable with that. It’s -- Sam. I can’t just quit working to spend more time with you.”

Sam scoffs. “Why the hell not? You did it for years before, you -- ”

“Because I was focusing on school,” Harry says hotly. Sam glances at him, and his stare isn’t quite enough to be described as a glare, but it’s close. 

“Watch your fucking tone.”

Harry pulls back, confused. Beyond confused. Sam hasn’t talked to him like that in _months_. And he hates it. He hates it so much. 

“Don’t talk to me like that,” Harry says, voice only a little soft. “We’re just talking, there’s no need to get so upset.”

“Oh, so you can tell me what to feel now?” Sam asks, mocking confusion. “Oh, really? Is that how it is? Because I’m pretty sure if I said that to you, you’d be crying like a little bitch to your friends, saying I’m controlling and dismissive and -- ”

“Pull over,” Harry demands, not liking what’s happening here. Not liking it at all. Sam has that look, that tone, that Harry recognizes as dangerous. There’s absolutely no way he’s going to the flat now, not with how angry Sam is at him. 

“Fuck no.”

Panic kicks up in Harry’s chest. “Sam,” he says sternly, staring straight ahead. “Pull over. Right now.”

“I’m not pulling over in the middle of the road, have you lost your goddamn mind?”

“Pull over right now,” Harry all but shouts, and he sounds incredibly desperate. When Sam just scoffs and clenches his jaw, fear clouds Harry’s judgment and he reaches for the door. Sam’s not driving that fast, he’s -- it’d hurt, probably, jumping out a moving car like this, but he wouldn’t die. And he’d rather take his chances doing this over going back home with Sam. 

He unlocks the door and is about to push it open when Sam’s arm flings across him and he holds the door firmly shut. Harry lets out a panicked sound as he tries to pry Sam’s fingers off, but then Sam’s saying, “Jesus, love, okay. _Okay._ I’ll pull over.”

He does, and as soon as the car isn’t moving, Harry gets out and starts walking. He pulls out his phone, dialing the number for a taxi. Belatedly, as he puts the phone to his ear and crosses his arms over his chest protectively, he thinks he should’ve texted Liam or Louis or Niall first that something was wrong. That he’s likely in danger right now. That way, if something were to happen, they’d at least have a heads up. If he didn’t come home tonight, they’d know to come looking sooner, they would --

God. Harry shouldn’t have to think about this. 

As he’s giving the location to the taxi driver, he hears a car door shut, and a nervous glance confirms that it’s Sam getting out of the car. He’s walking in his direction, so Harry doubles his speed. Fucking shit, he hasn’t felt scard like this is a while. He hasn’t -- shit. He feels lightheaded. 

“Yeah, okay, thank you. Bye.” He hangs up the phone and is in the middle of texting Liam a SOS message when Sam asks him to please wait. Harry doesn’t stop walking, but he does stop texting. 

“Harry. Babe. Please don’t do this.”

Harry keeps walking, panic still clutching at his throat. 

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Sam says. He sounds miserable. “I’m not -- sweetheart, I wouldn’t do that. I told you I would never do that again.” When Harry still doesn’t stop, Sam sighs loudly and says, “Why would I do it on the side of a road? When have I ever hit you where others could see?”

It’s true. Harry’s probably safe, now that he’s out of the car. He stops slowly, and not just because he thinks it’s safe to do so. That’s the first time Sam has ever clearly admitted to hurting him. To being strategic about the abuse. He can’t tell if it makes him more angry or sad. 

Sam catches up to him quickly, and when he does, the first thing he does is set his arm on Harry’s forearm and calls him baby. 

“Do not touch me,” Harry says evenly, gaze sharp. He has absolutely no idea where the courage comes from, but it’s validated by the way Sam nods and takes his arm off of him. 

“I didn’t mean to get so upset. I’m sorry.”

Harry feels tears prick in his eyes at the same time anger tears through him. “How many times have I heard that from you, Sam?”

Sam doesn’t say anything, but he at least has the decency to look guilty. 

“Except usually it’s after you hit me,” Harry seethes. “Usually it’s after your hands have been around my neck, or you’ve given me a black eye, or you’ve -- ” his voice catches, and he forces himself to fix it before he continues. “Or you’ve fucked me so hard that I’m bleeding on the bed sheets. I guess I should feel fucking _lucky,_ right, that all you did is just yell at me?”

“We can’t do this if you can’t trust me,” Sam says calmly. Far too calmly for Harry’s liking. “Baby, how do you expect us to move on if you can’t forgive me for what I’ve done? That was the old me, it’s not fair to keep comparing me to that.”

“ _Forgive_ you?” Harry spits out, eyes wide. “ _Forgive you?_ I don’t _forgive_ you. For _any_ of it. And I never will, even if we do continue seeing each other. You don’t -- God, you still don’t get it. I thought -- I thought you changed, I thought -- ”

“I have, baby, I have.” He looks desperate. Scared. Well fucking _good_.

“No, you haven’t, Sam,” he says, voice hoarse. “Because if you really did change, you wouldn’t pull that _bullshit_ where you pretend like you’re a completely different person. You wouldn’t try to detach yourself from it in the hopes that I could separate it in my head. Well, I _can’t_. The person who’s being nice to me now is the same person that -- ” his statement would be so much more impactful if he could just say the word, but he _can’t,_ “ -- that hurt me. And even if you never stop acting like an angel, that person will still be you.”

“What do you need from me, sweetheart? Let me fix this. Please.”

“I don’t know,” Harry admits, frowning. He shakes his head. “I don’t even know. I don’t think you can fix this. I thought. . . I thought I could do this, but I don’t know if I can. It’s not fair on me that I have to fear that I’m about to be fucking murdered or something if I look at you the wrong way.”

Sam steps closer, and Harry takes a large step back. He feels disgusted, and not even with Sam. With himself. 

“You can’t leave me again,” Sam says, tears in his eyes. Harry doesn’t buy it. “You can’t -- I almost did something really stupid the last time you left me, I don’t want -- ”

“There you fucking go,” Harry shouts, throwing his hands up. He scoffs and rubs his hands over his face, absolutely beside himself. “You -- God, Sam. You can’t go five minutes without trying to manipulate me. _‘Stay or I’ll kill myself’,_ really? That’s like the oldest fucking trick in the book.”

Sam looks at a loss for words. 

“Say ‘stay because I’ll really miss you,’” Harry says, shaking his head. “Say -- say, ‘Please stay, even though I don’t deserve another chance. Stay because I love you, and you’re worth fighting for.’ Say, ‘I understand that all you’re asking for is a bit of respect, and I’ll honor you enough to give you that because it’s what you deserve.’ Sam, if you can’t think of a reason for me to stay that isn’t about you, what are we really doing here?”

“I do love you,” Sam chokes out. It hurts Harry’s heart, even though it maybe shouldn’t. “I love you like mad, Harry. And I know you deserve better. You deserve to be treated with respect. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

It’s almost good, until he says, “This has been a real eye-opener for me, and I’ll -- ”

“God,” Harry interrupts, letting out a hysterical laugh. “This is what opened your eyes? Really? Not me bawling my eyes out because you hurt me countless times? Not me leaving you in the middle of the night because I was scared you were going to come home and _kill_ me? Not me having to go to the doctors because you fucking -- you fucking _raped_ me.”

The world rips itself from his throat, and once it’s finally out, once it’s finally been said, Harry feels _sick_. But he can’t stop talking, even though his voice is wrecked and he feels terrible. 

“I could hardly walk, I was bleeding. _So_ much, there was _so_ much blood. And I was scared of you, I was _petrified_. And you did it _again_ and _again_ and _again_. None of those times -- those weren’t enough of a wake up call to you?”

Sam stares at him, shocked and stunned and speechless, all things that he shouldn’t be allowed to be. He knew what it was; he called it that on the phone when he had discounted what Harry was saying, but he must’ve known what it was. He’s not stupid. And he doesn’t get to not know what to say, not when he put them both in this situation. Not when Harry’s trembling, on the inside and out, and wants nothing more than a hug right now, even from Sam. Especially from Sam. No, a hug won’t come even close to fixing what happened, and it’s not even a good start, just. . . Harry feels completely lost right now. 

“Can I hug you?” Sam asks, just after Harry crosses his arms over himself protectively. It’s -- God. Harry nods shakily, and when Sam steps forward and wraps his arms around him, fear shoots up his spine. He forces it down and wraps his arms around Sam’s shoulders. He can see the way his hands are shaking, so he closes his eyes and presses his nose to Sam’s shoulder. 

“You should go home,” Sam whispers, rubbing his hands up and down Harry’s back. “Go home and get a good night’s sleep, okay? And -- and call me, when you wake up? If you want to? And we can talk about this.” He squeezes Harry tighter as his voice gets tight and shaky. “About all of it.”

Harry can’t help the way he sobs at that. 

“I’m sorry, baby,” Sam says, voice too quiet to be described as a whisper. He sounds so _sad_ , so raw and exposed. And maybe Harry is naive and dumb to take it as a sign that maybe now will be the time they get it right, but he’s feeling awfully sensitive and vulnerable right now. This time, he thinks, his weakness is justified. 

The taxi pulls up far too soon. Harry doesn’t want to let go yet, doesn’t feel like he can, and Sam doesn’t rush him. The taxi driver does, though; after a minute of neither of them moving, he honks and shouts out the window asking if one of them’s a Harry. 

“You’ll be fine,” Sam whispers, running his hands down his back still. “Just go, okay? And text me when you get home safe. And Harry, I promise you I’ll spend a long time thinking about this, okay? I’ll find a way to try and make it right.”

Harry, feeling miserable and completely broken, croaks out, “I love you.” It feels wrong. He shouldn’t have given that up just yet; now Sam’s going to move on to trying to convince him to move back in. Harry gets the game now. But saying it also feels right. For no special reason, it just does. 

“I love you, too, sweetheart. Be good.”

Sam pulls away and gently guides Harry to the car. He helps him into the backseat and gives the driver some money and the address. Before he leaves, Sam reaches behind to squeeze his kneecap. As he walks away, Harry numbly realizes that Sam shouldn’t know his address. He never gave it to him or allowed him to drive him home for that exact reason. Sam must’ve looked through his phone and found it. Maybe he even followed him home one night, Harry doesn’t know. He closes his eyes and tips his head back against the headrest, too exhausted to think about it. 

When he gets in the flat, Liam and Niall are chatting far too loudly on the couch. They greet him happily, and all he can give him is a small smile in return. Instantly, Liam grows worried. 

“Did he hit you?”

Harry lets out a tired sound as he walks across the living room. “Shut up, Liam.” He grabs a water from the fridge and is about to go to the bedroom when Liam stands and starts going all protective on him; n _o, you tell me right now what happened, why do you look so sad, what happened?_

“You don’t get to ask me about it anymore,” Harry says, maybe a little nonsensically. “Just don’t. I’m so sick of talking about it. He didn’t hit me. We just talked.” He sighs quietly, still feeling shaky and wrong. “And I’m serious. Don’t ask me anymore. Mind your business.”

Liam doesn’t press him on it, even though it’s obvious he really wants to. 

When Harry heads to the room to see Louis stretched out in bed, tapping away on his phone, he’s nearly devoured with want. It takes him a second to figure out what it is that he even wants, and then he realizes that he just wants to feel a little better, and Louis’ the best one for that. Not his boyfriend, not his best friend: Louis. Louis always makes it better. So, he kicks off his shoes, shuts the door, and crawls into bed next to Louis. He doesn’t say anything, not even when Louis asks him if he had fun. He just lays there and presses against him, trying to rush the process of feeling better. 

“Hey,” Louis says quietly. He drags his hand down Harry’s arm and stops at the end to squeeze his hand. “Your hands are shaking.”

“Sorry.”

Louis laughs and puts his phone down so he scoots over, inviting Harry further into his space. “Don’t be sorry, Jesus. Just. Are you okay, darling?”

It’s odd, the way Harry saw Liam’s concern as an attack not even two minutes ago and now he wants to tell Louis everything. _Everything._ Even about the -- about the bad sex. In the end, he decides not to. 

“Just a little worked up. Nothing Sam did. Don’t ask.”

And Louis doesn’t, which makes Harry feel already immeasurably better. Louis doesn’t say anything when Harry wiggles around to grab his phone out of his back pocket so he can text Sam that he’s home safe. He doesn’t say anything when he very clearly reads Sam’s response of, _I’ll understand if you don’t give me another chance. Genuinely. I’m not just saying that. Sleep well, we can talk about this more tomorrow x._

Harry puts his phone on the side table before curling into Louis’ side. He wants to sleep, but Louis begins to quietly tell him about his day, probably assuming Harry wants a distraction. It’s nice, hearing the rumble of his chest as he talks. 

-

Sam and Harry don’t have that talk they planned on the following day, and it is strictly Harry’s fault. It’s just -- everything that happened yesterday messed with his head. Their first fight since things have been good, Sam sounding scary like before, Harry opening up about _that_. It weighs on him heavily throughout the whole night and the next morning when Harry calls to say good morning, he evades every attempt to have a serious conversation. 

“I can’t today,” Harry tells him, closing his eyes. “Not today. It’s fine.’

And after that, Sam doesn’t bring up them sitting down to talk things through again. Harry isn’t in a rush to bring it up, either. That’s fucking traumatic to talk about, especially when he’s terrified Sam is going to try to convince him that it’s not what happened. So he supposes that it’s fine, them not talking about it and pretending like that fight didn’t happen. The closest they get to it is the first night Harry sleeps over. 

It is an accident, one-hundred percent not planned. But he’s tired and wants to spend more time with Sam, so he figured he’d stay the night. There is no reason not to; this was his home for a handful of years, too. It’s after they have sex and they’re laying in bed, both on their phones, when Sam brings it up. 

“If you really think I raped you,” he starts slowly, and already, Harry’s body is boiling with shame and fear, “then why would you want to have sex with me again?”

It takes Harry a solid minute to respond to that. His mind feels foggy and warm, too cloudy to think through. Part of him just doesn’t want to say anything, but a smaller part of him is saying he should. Somehow, it wins. 

“I know that you ra -- ” he feels dizzy, and he sets a hand to his forehead. “We’re not -- stop using that word. Stop -- it’s true, but it’s too hard, it’s -- ”

“Breathe, H, shit.” Sam slides over to him in bed, and no, their naked skin pressed against each other right now isn’t what he wants, but he doesn’t say anything. 

“I know that you assaulted me,” he says slowly, hand still pressed to his forehand. Sam has his wrist in his hand, his fingers circled around it. “It’s -- multiple times. That’s undeniable, Sam, don’t -- please don’t try to say anything different.”

“But then why would you -- ”

“I don’t know,” Harry interrupts. He feels awfully close to crying now, his face warm and eyes wet and chin quivering. “I don’t know why I want to have sex with you still, but I do, and that doesn’t -- it can’t take away from what happened. It doesn’t mean that it didn’t really hurt me, okay, just -- just don’t make me feel stupid for still wanting you.”

Sam kisses his shoulder, and it makes him feel sick. “That’s not what I was trying to do, sorry. You’re not stupid. Come on, let’s cuddle, okay?”

And really, how is it Sam’s fault that Harry doesn’t have the confidence to tell him no? How is Sam supposed to know that, when he wraps his arms around him and presses his naked body against Harry’s, Harry feels like he could actually puke, if he doesn’t say anything? 

Everything’s so complicated. All of it. He thinks about what Louis said about soulmates. About how he said that love shouldn’t be that easy. It comforts him for a while, until he realizes that he’s certain that Louis wasn’t insinuating love was supposed to be this hard. 

-

Like before, things escalate between him and Sam quite quickly. Not as quickly as the first time, maybe even a reasonable pace, but still too fast that Harry told himself he’d take it when he walked into that pub on Sam’s birthday. 

Six months into restarting things, Harry lets Sam convince him into using his second car again. He says it’s just sitting there, that it has barely been driven since Harry, that it’s Harry’s car, really. He makes a lame joke about not calling the cops this time and Harry agrees to it, because taking a taxi everywhere is getting old. 

At six and a half months, Harry has one of Sam’s credit cards in his wallet in case. He doesn’t use it, but it’s there. Two weeks later, Sam almost talks Harry into quitting his job and letting Sam take care of everything. Liam and Louis talk him back out of it one morning while Niall’s at the gym and Harry’s mind is spinning enough to ask for guidance. 

“He’s trying to trap you again,” Liam says, shaking his head. “There’s no reason for you not to have a job and support yourself at twenty-three. Especially if the only reason he has is because he wants to take care of you.”

“Bet he’s started talking bad about the three of us,” is what Louis says. He’s staring at the kitchen table, arms crossed over his chest. “Maybe your mum, too.”

Harry bites on his lip. The last few weeks, Sam’s been more vocal about his dislike for how certain things are done at the flat and what his roommates do and say and think. Harry usually reels him in once he starts getting too personal -- he called Liam a nosy cunt once -- but he has noticed that started to increase. 

He has ignored what it probably means.

“Soon enough, you’ll be exactly where you started, Harry: no job, no freedom, no friends, no confidence.” Louis lets out a loud sigh and shakes his head. “I don’t think you realize how powerless we feel, just watching you go straight back into things with him.’

Harry frowns. “It’s okay. I can take care of myself.”

“Then why do you need Sam’s money?”

“Okay,” Harry agrees, nodding. “You’re right. I’ll keep working.”

They finish their breakfast together in a comfortable silence. Harry’s texting Sam, his empty cereal bowl in front of him, when Liam says, “You know. There’s going to be a time that you regret getting back with him. Like, _really_ regret it. And I think you know that, too, which is what I don’t understand.”

Louis doesn’t correct him, clearly agreeing. And Harry can’t even confidently say that isn’t true, so he wordlessly stands to put his bowl in the sink. 

Seven months into it, Harry spends three nights in a row at Sam’s, almost four. They eat take-out and watch bad reality TV and cuddle. They take long walks at night and have sex in the early mornings before Sam has to go to work. They FaceTime Sam’s mum when they’re drunk on tequila and talk to her for two hours. 

“It’s so good to see that you’re feeling better, Harry,” she says, looking happy and pitying all at once. “Sam was so worried about you. He missed you so much.”

Harry’s leaning his head against Sam’s shoulder, both of them laying flat on their stomachs in bed. He sits up to look at him better, confused. That’s. . . Sam changes the topic of conversation quickly, but Harry isn’t stupid. He must’ve fed the story that Harry was this manic, suicidal idiot on a rampage to his own mother, too. 

He tells himself he won’t bring it up, that he won’t ruin these few good days they’ve spent together, but when they’re in the kitchen an hour later, waiting for a frozen pizza to cook in the oven, he can’t keep quiet any longer. He’s becoming bolder, becoming used to the idea that he won’t be punished for having a mind of his own. It’s going to get him in trouble one day, and hopefully that doesn’t happen tonight. 

“Did you tell your mum that I was bipolar, too, then?” he asks quietly, the rim of the shot glass against his bottom lip. He’s staring at the oven so he doesn’t have to look at Sam. He can still see the way he fidgets, though. The way he shifts his weight from leg to leg. Can hear him put down his own glass and clear his throat. 

“Um, yeah,” is all he has to say for himself. 

Harry sighs softly and downs the rest of the drink -- it’s vodka now, they accidentally spilled the rest of the tequila -- before putting the drink on the counter behind him. “Why?”

“I couldn’t just tell her that the boy who she absolutely adored left me in the middle of the night because I physically and sexually abused him, could I?”

It’s not harsh. It’s not terribly sad, either, not in the way that he gets when he’s exaggerating his emotions so Harry feels bad for him. It’s honest. It’s quiet and insecure and a little scared. Harry sniffs and shrugs, crossing his arms over his stomach. 

“Suppose not.” He runs his finger over the ring of Sam’s that’s on his middle finger. He was messing with his jewelry earlier and Sam told him that it looked good on him, that he should keep it. He closes his eyes briefly before opening them again and staring back at the oven. “It’s smart, though. Discrediting my mental state to our mums. Filing a police report on me. If I ever wanted to go to court, they’d have that on me. On top of me willingly moving to a different city with you and using your money and being a guy and now me getting back with you. That’s. . . you really thought this through.”

He doesn’t even know why he’s saying this all. It’s stupid and maybe a little mean. Even if Sam didn’t have a cruel side to him, it’d still be a brave thing to say to someone. Accusing them of being a master manipulator. And Sam being Sam, there’s one of two things that could happen; one: he’ll tell Harry that he’s so sorry and he’ll cry and he’ll beg Harry not to ever call the police; or two: he’ll get blindingly mad. 

Neither of those happen. 

Instead, Sam says, “I lied to both our mum’s about you being hospitalized and having been diagnosed. The cops would find that out within seconds. And you gave the car back immediately. That wouldn’t be much to hold against you, either. And you have friends, friends who hate me. Friends who would go to bat for you if they had to. And you have that doctor’s appointment from a few years back when you were bleeding, too. She would probably testify in your favor. Plus the record of your broken wrist. If I ever did anything to physically harm you again, H, you’d just take pictures to show the police. Don’t you,” he laughs, this ugly, hoarse sound, “Don’t you realize you could fry me in a second if you wanted to?”

It’s startling to hear. It’s -- it gives him a sense of confidence. Not in the fact that he has some sort of upper hand with Sam, but because Sam is telling him all this. He’s giving him an out, and a very effective one at that. That means there’s some trust here. Or maybe he’s not even trusting that Harry won’t go to the police, maybe he’s saying that he’d understand if he did. Either way, he’s giving Harry power by telling him all that, by building his confidence instead of tearing it down, and that’s new. No matter which way you look at it, that’s growth. 

Harry pushes his weight off the counter to walk over to Sam and give him a soft, warm hug. He doesn’t deserve it, but maybe he knows that. 

As he closes his eyes and sinks into Sam’s warmth, something cold starts to spill in his gut. It’s. . . If Sam knows how much he has to lose, maybe that’s not a good thing. Maybe that’s really, really bad. If he lashes out at Harry again -- and miles of history say that he will -- it might be more violent and permanent than ever before. He’s clearly wary of the power Harry seemingly possesses over him in this way; what if that made him desperate and scared enough to do something to shut Harry up completely?

Harry comes home the following afternoon, too many thoughts in his head to deal with alone. So, when he gets home to an empty flat, he waits in the bedroom for Louis to get back home from wherever he is. Louis gets in about an hour later, and he looks tense and tired so Harry waits for him to relax a bit. There’s no reason to throw this all on Louis right away. He doesn’t want to become a burden. After Louis seems relatively content, though, Harry sits up in bed, his legs hanging off the edge slightly, and looks at him. 

“Can we talk?”

Louis glances at him before sitting up, too, mirroring Harry’s posture. “Sure.”

“I think Sam might actually be changing,” he says slowly. “Do you think it’s too late?”

“I think it’s too early,” Louis tells him. “I think it’s not fair on yourself to sit through the process of watching him potentially get better. After everything, the least he could do for you is stay away until he knows for sure that he won’t hurt you further.”

Harry stares at him, probably a little stupidly. 

“Say there was a house,” Louis starts, smiling slightly. “Bare with me. You were an English major, you know how it is with all these stupid metaphors. But say there was a house. And say that it got burned to ashes one day. And you call in builders and renovators, and you stay away until it’s fixed up. You’d stay away until it was finished, wouldn’t you? You wouldn’t go back to stay with only the foundation done. At that point, it’d be too early to tell if it’d fall again. And even if it didn’t, even if it stood standing all the way until it was finished, you wouldn’t know if you would like it this time around.”

“It’d be cruel, though, right? To leave him in the darkest time in his life?”

Louis gives him a confused look. “You’re talking about the person who single-handedly crafted the darkest time of _your_ life. I’d call it fair.”

Harry doesn’t say anything for a while. Doesn’t know what _to_ say. It’s like he knows that Louis’ right, and it doesn’t even matter somehow. It feels like he has no say in what happens at all. 

“You’re too different, I think,” Louis tells him. He looks so sad, all the sudden. “He’s the type of person to hurt and abuse a eighteen-year-old boy foolishly and madly in love with him. You’re the type of person to want the best for the man who has done the absolutely worst to you.”

“Does that make me stupid?” His voice is strained, and his throat is hot. 

“ _No,_ Harry,” Louis says incredulously. “It makes you empathetic and caring and loyal. It makes you see the good in the bad, which is something I love about you. But it also makes you carry guilt and responsibilities that aren’t your own to carry. It makes you forget that, almost a year ago now, you were so achingly broken and alone and _terrified._ ”

Miserably, Harry says, “But I love him.”

“That’s fine. Love him. Love him with everything you have. But from a distance. From where he can’t hurt you. Which, love, is only possible if he’s not in your life at all. Leave him now, at a time where you can say that he treated you a bit nicer than before and made you feel good. End it on a high note, where you have some closure.”

Harry takes that in slowly, trying to digest that even as he already knows that he won’t do that. He’s not smart enough, nor strong enough. After about a moment, he looks down at his hands and asks, “Do you think Sam could ever end up killing me?”

“God, Harry,” Louis breathes out. He curses under his breath and sighs loudly. “That’s -- this is what I mean, love. You don’t deserve to have to question that. Why are you putting yourself through this? I know it’s not that simple, but it’s -- Harry. You need to _leave him._ For good this time.”

With tears in his eyes, Harry says, “You didn’t say yes or no.”

“Yes,” Louis says immediately. “Yes, I think it’s very possible Sam could kill you. Both accidentally and on purpose.” He sounds a little hysterical as he says, “You know, I read something the other day that domestic abusers are seven-hundred and fifty percent more likely to kill their victims if they’ve strangled them before. Isn’t that bloody insane? And I know that Sam’s choked you before.”

Harry didn’t need to know that. He didn’t -- God, he feels sick. He wipes at his nose before hunching forward and setting his head on his hands. Sam has choked him so many times before, a few times to the point that he nearly passed out. One time where he actually did, only for a few seconds. That’s terrifying. That’s -- fucking hell, he didn’t actually think Sam was capable of that, but now. . . 

“I don’t know why it has to be so complicated,” he cries, not caring how pathetic and helpless he sounds. “I don’t know why he had to ruin _everything._ I didn’t ask for any of this.”

“It’s not going to change, Harry. It’s never going to change.” Louis sounds urgent now, like he’s really trying to get through to him. “Do you plan on staying with him forever? Because if that’s the goal, shit. You’d be setting up your kids for a world of hurt that _they_ certainly didn’t ask for, either. I know you want kids. I know you probably want kids with him. What’s more important, darling. Him or them? Who are you going to protect?”

Harry presses his fingers to his eyes, far too overwhelmed to respond to that. It’s -- fuck, he does want kids with Sam. Loads of them. But Louis’ right, how could he do that to them? All it would take is Sam losing his temper once to scar them forever. Harry should know. 

“You have a choice in this,” Louis says. “Before, you were stuck. I understand that. But you have to recognize that right now, you still have some capacity to decide what you want to happen here; safely, you can make whatever choice you want. And you also have to recognize that you’re reaching the point of being right back in that position where you are stuck. The minute you move back in with him, you are giving up your option of making a smart, safe choice.”

He’s right. He’s so, so painfully right. If Harry moves back in with him, he’s back to square one. He’s back to constantly being worried and feeling unsafe. Sam’s back to being less worried about getting him back under his control. If he goes back, it could potentially lead to his death. Already, Harry’s playing with fire. He shouldn’t tempt fate any further. He thinks about what Louis said for a long, long time after that, but somehow, the next time he sees Sam, everything else seems inconsequential. 

Louis’ right. Harry knows that. Somehow, Harry ends up agreeing to move back in with Sam two months later. 

-


	2. chapter two

-

Sam brings up the idea of him moving back in on a sunny Saturday afternoon. They’re laying in bed, naked even though they haven’t had sex, and Sam’s running his hand over Harry’s lower belly. Harry feels like a cat stretched out in the heat, basking in the sun coming in from the window. 

“I wish I could wake up to you like this every day,” Sam whispers, dragging his finger across Harry’s cheekbone. “I can’t wait for you to feel ready to come back home.”

Harry tips his head to the side, feeling far too blissful to panic at the idea. “Maybe eventually, yeah. Would be nice.”

“I sleep so much better when you’re here. And the day goes by so much quicker when I know I’m coming home to you. . .”

Harry stretches, his toes curling. It’s a nice idea. Ideas are always nice. That’s what he keeps it at in his head. 

“Could make you breakfast in the morning. Blow you before bed. I know that you sleep better after you’ve gotten off. Do you do that yourself now, hmm?” Sam presses forward so he can smile into Harry’s skin, and Harry grins, too. Everything just feels so easy. So right. 

“Your stubble is scratching the fuck out of me, thanks.” Harry’s smiling still, though, as he moves Sam’s jaw so his beard isn’t scratching at his neck. 

“You like it,” Sam whispers, grabbing Harry’s wrist gently with one hand, the other still petting his stomach. “Right?”

Harry’s eyes slip shut a bit. “Yeah, I do.”

As Sam starts to kiss him everywhere, Harry can’t think of a reason not to move back in. Past ignored, Sam hasn’t done anything wrong in eight months. _Eight months._ He’s done everything right. Harry should reward him somehow, shouldn’t he? He should thank him for being so kind, for trying so hard.

Liam and Louis and Niall would snort at him if he said that. _Past ignored, yeah, right. If only._

“Could do this every morning,” Sam says against his skin, once he’s got Harry turned over on his stomach and his legs spread, his mouth resting against his upper thigh. “Every night before bed, too. Just come home. Whenever you’re ready, obviously. . .”

Sam pesters him about it for weeks, always tacking on a _whenever you’re ready_ to the end. So, really, how much of a say does Harry have? It’s -- sure, Sam isn’t directly pressuring him into saying yes. But it’s very obvious that that’s the response he wants, and by asking and asking and asking, the effectiveness of the consent portion of that statement lessens. It’s not like Harry doesn’t have a choice in it, he does. He spends two whole months thinking about it, and Sam doesn’t pressure him in any way aside from constantly bringing up the idea. 

Deciding to move back in is probably the hardest choice in all of this. Getting back together with him, having sex with him again, spending the night; those all sort of felt inevitable and not that significant. Moving back in, though, is much more complex than that. For the obvious reasons, being that moving back in is the last step back into being back at square one. If he moves in, eventually, it’ll be like he never really left at all. It’s putting himself in serious, serious danger. More danger than he’s ever been in before, really. And for the lesser obvious reasons, like Harry really just likes living with the boys. He doesn’t wake up stressed like he still does whenever he stays at Sam’s apartment; he wakes and the first thing he usually sees is Louis, and then he goes throughout his day spending time with three very important people who have never hurt him, not once. Leaving that feels silly. Pointless. The way things are going with Sam from a distance are amazing, so why should they mess with it? Why add more pressure and stress on the relationship?

The problem is, he can’t really think of a solid reason to move back in. Sure, he enjoys being around Sam and would like to move back in with him, but that’s not realistic nor is it enough. In the back of his mind, he is one-hundred percent sure that things will eventually get violent again, and it isn’t enough to deter him. Why isn’t it enough to deter him? Does he really not care about himself _that_ much? In the moment, he always soothes himself by saying that it’s wrong to bank on Sam hurting him again, that he’s trying and he shouldn’t doubt him. Good boyfriends wouldn’t doubt their partner. But all he’s doing is manipulating his own self into believing that being a “good” boyfriend means blind loyalty and great sacrifice. 

He knows he’s going to move back in eventually. He’s pretty sure Sam knows that, too. It’s just a matter of when, which comes after a massive fight with Liam. 

It wasn’t actually that big. Sam gets him worked up about it, but when he actually reflects on it, he thinks that maybe it wasn’t all that bad. 

It had been building up for a while, the tension between Liam and Harry. The more and more Harry goes out with Sam, the more and more he stops focusing on work, the more and more Sam gifts him (the car, the credit card, the ring he constantly wears on his middle finger, a new laptop when Harry’s goes screwy), the farther and farther Harry falls into the trance, the harder and harder it is for Liam to keep quiet about it. It started with little snide comments and slowly worked itself into Liam and Harry butting heads about _something_ whenever they’re in the same room as each other. 

“You’re upset, I understand that,” he heard Louis say one night. “So does he. He gets that he’s being reckless. I don’t think he holds it against us, our distrust for their relationship, but Liam. You can’t chew him out for every little thing, especially when it has nothing to do with Sam.”

“He argues back just as much.”

“You stopped talking to Harry a long time ago. Now you’re just talking to Sam’s boyfriend again. You have to understand that.”

Harry remembers not liking that at all. He’s more than just Sam’s boyfriend. He’s -- a son. Of a mother he doesn’t talk to as often as he should. A brother, but that’s -- he doesn’t talk to Gemma much, either, especially since he got back with Sam. She still doesn’t know. He’s an employee at a convenience store that pays him minimum wages. He’s. . . He’s still a friend. Right? 

“You’re the one who blew up on him the first time you found out he was back with Sam,” Liam argued. “Don’t go all zen on me now, not when he’s closer and closer to being back in danger.”

“We’re past the point of reasoning, I think, Liam. He’s. . . He’s going to remember why he left eventually. And we just have to do our best at being open and non-judgmental with him so he isn’t scared to turn to us when he inevitably needs him to. We have to. . . you know. Remind him that he will always have a place to stay here, that he isn’t alone, that he can talk to us about whatever. We can’t scare him off, Liam, not when the only other person he thinks he has to turn to is Sam.”

Harry slumped his weight against the bedroom door at that. His friends were already planning on how they would help him leave again. They probably thought he was so stupid. _Is_ stupid.

“Yeah, and what happens if something worse happens than before? Could you live with yourself if he died, if -- if we had to go to his bloody funeral because we didn’t try hard enough to keep him away from Sam?”

“No,” Louis said, and he sounded incredibly upset. “But I think it’d hurt worse if he died or got seriously hurt while thinking that we didn’t support him and that he was alone.”

Harry had come out of his room, then, doing his best to look like he hadn’t been listening. He doesn’t know if it was convincing or not. He does know, however, that Liam apparently did not agree with Louis’ plan of attack, because two days later, Liam started a huge fight over a _hickey_. In front of everyone. Niall, Louis, Zayn. Zayn’s girlfriend was out getting take-out when it happened, thank _God_.

They were sitting around the kitchen table, playing a game of cards, when Liam abruptly yanked down his t-shirt and seethed, “Is that a fucking bruise?”

Harry slapped Liam’s hand away, hard. “I told you a long time ago to not talk about Sam.”

“Answer my fucking question.”

“Why do you feel so entitled to an answer?” Harry asked. “Why -- why is that when Sam is worried about me, it’s wrong and he’s overbearing, when you’re -- ”

“Because I’ve never had my hands around your neck,” Liam spat, with such callous and venom that Zayn nudged his arm, mumbling at him to stop. Harry was reminded that they weren’t alone, then, and he looked at the three of them, and they all had the same look on their faces. They didn’t agree with Liam, but they also weren’t going to step in, either. Harry was in it by himself. 

“Don’t you think it’s a bit insensitive,” he said through clenched teeth, “reminding me of what happened every chance you get? Don’t use my trauma as a point in your argument.”

Liam didn’t waver. “Don’t go back to the man who caused that trauma.”

“You don’t know anything about him.”

He wasn’t sad, just angry, so he didn’t know why he had tears in his eyes. 

“I know that’s a bruise on your neck.”

“It’s a fucking hickey,” Harry snapped, standing up. He slapped the cards on the table and shoved his chair in roughly. “You know, some of us are actually having sex.”

Liam laughed meanly. “I’d much rather be single for the rest of my life than go be with someone who -- ”

“Liam,” Louis hissed. “Stop it.”

Liam opened his mouth to say something else, but Harry didn’t stick around to hear it. He grabbed his phone off the table and stormed off to his room to grab his keys and a pair of shoes. When he came back out and headed for the door, Louis pleaded with him to stay while Liam scoffed. 

“Yeah, go to Sam. Go use _his_ car to go to _his_ flat that _he_ pays the rent for. And if you have to stop for gas, it’s a good fucking thing you have his credit card. And -- ”

Louis, who was standing halfway from Liam and Harry, who was now standing by the door, turned to glare at Liam and said, “You are _literally_ driving him to his abuser, don’t you see that you are doing the exact opposite of what you want?”

Harry would have defended Sam, then, if it wasn’t for the tears aching to be shed. He just left, and while he walked to the car, there were hurried footsteps behind him. 

“Haz,” Louis called out softly. “Haz. Hazza. Don’t leave.”

Harry ignored him, but once he was opening the car door, Louis caught up and slid into the passenger seat. He looked so apologetic for something he didn’t even cause. “Let’s go somewhere, me and you. Come on. Out to eat or something.”

“I was just going to head over to Sam’s, Louis.”

“I know. But I’d rather you hung out with me, yeah? I’m pretty good company, if I do say so myself.”

Before Harry could respond, someone was tugging at the back door. Harry unlocked it, sighing tiredly, and Zayn scooted into the middle seat. “Where are we going? I’m craving tacos.”

“Gigi will be back with the food in less than ten minutes. Just go be with her, Zayn.”

Zayn made a disgruntled noise. “I see her everyday, mate. Let’s just go get tacos or something.”

So they did. Harry drove to an open-late restaurant, and they ate food that Harry pointedly paid for with his own money. Then they drove around for a bit, listening to music and talking quietly. They were clearly trying to stall him, and it worked. He didn’t go to Sam’s that night; it was too late and Sam was asleep, judging by his goodnight text. So, Harry went home, purposefully and completely ignored Liam, and went straight to bed. After about a half hour of laying in bed, he was halfway asleep when Louis slid into bed next to him. They didn’t cuddle, Louis just laid next to him. 

Harry went to Sam’s the morning after. He talked to him about everything because he was still so _angry_ , and Sam made a lot of good points. 

“How will you ever be able to trust me again when your friends don’t?” he said. “How will we ever be able to move past this -- no, not move past it, but. . . but grow from it, I guess, if the ones closest to you won’t let it go? If my friends talked poorly about you, wouldn’t you want me to drop them? Or at the very least distance myself from them?”

It made sense in Harry’s clouded, angry brain, so he said, “Yeah, you’re right. Maybe it’d be better for us if I just moved back in.”

He regretted it exactly seven minutes after he said it, and by that time, Sam had him stretched out in bed. Harry has quite literally never been eaten out as much as he has been these past few months in his entire life. And, well. He’s not exactly complaining.

It’s been seven hours since Harry agreed to come back home, and he still regrets it. He’s not ready. He’d crack the second Sam hit him again; he has to grow back some callouses, can’t just jump right back into being hurt. But Sam is so goddamn excited that Harry doesn’t think he has the heart to take it back.

“Give me a few weeks, though, okay?” Harry asks, stepping in-between Sam’s legs. He’s sitting on the counter in just his boxers, talking about how things will be so good between them and that Harry will be safe and happy here. He even says that they can move into a different flat, if it’s too hard for him to be here again. 

Harry considers it briefly, up until Sam mentions that the firm he works at has a company in Glasgow and that he could talk about transferring there. Harry won’t let himself move cities again for Sam. 

“I’ll give you all the time you want,” Sam whispers. He closes his thighs around Harry’s hips and pulls him in, and Harry’s goes into the warmth quickly. 

Harry is seriously dreading telling the boys that he’s moving out. That’s bound to cause some conflict, especially since he legally committed to staying here for another six months. Sam already promised him that he’d pay for his share of rent if Harry couldn’t afford to, but Harry can and he will. He’s not going to screw over his friends like that. 

He doesn’t have to tell them, though. At least, he doesn’t have to tell Louis, which he was dreading most. Liam will get loud and angry; Louis’ just going to get soft and sad. And Harry doesn’t want to hurt Louis, not at all. 

He’s cleaning his drawers out (just cleaning, not packing, not yet) when Louis rolls over in bed and stares at him sadly. “You’re going to leave us soon, aren’t you? To go live with Sam again?”

Harry freezes, his hand resting on an old textbook in his drawer. He doesn’t say anything, too ashamed. 

“Just be safe,” Louis pleads. “Leave if you want to. Come stay the night here, no matter what’s the reason. If Sam changed, he should understand you might need some space. And if -- if something bad happens, know that you’ll always be welcomed back here. Always. Even if nothing bad happens, even if you just want to come back. This is your home.”

“Thank you,” Harry says quietly. He thinks that he’ll just leave it at that, but Louis deserves more. Louis has gone above and beyond for him when he didn’t have to, when Harry is being frustrating and selfish and dumb. Liam might have felt some personal responsibility over him, but Louis had no reason to try so hard. He turns to him, feeling guilty. “I mean it. You don’t have to be so nice to me.”

Louis smiles sadly. “Being nice is just something most people do, H.”

“But you’re so bloody understanding. You don’t make me feel like a giant idiot all the time, even though I know you disagree with what I’ve chosen.”

“I don’t think you’ve chosen anything,” Louis says. “I think you got wrapped back into it because you didn’t know what else to do.”

“Still. Just. . . thanks.”

“Gonna miss our cuddles, though. Liam is too bulky and Niall stinks.”

Harry grins at him, standing up. He shuts the drawer with his foot before basically throwing himself in Louis’ bed, pulling him down with him. He sets his cheek on Louis’ shoulder and curls into Louis’ side, his knees pressed against his thigh. Louis drops a hand to his hair, although he doesn’t do much petting. It’s just there. 

“You know,” Louis says after a while, “I thought things would have turned out differently than this. Like, a lot different.”

Harry hums. “How so?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t really have any exact expectations, just. . . not this.”

Harry’s too tired to ask much more about it, so all he says is, “Oh.”

Two days later, he tells Liam. It just feels like the right time. Harry still doesn’t have a date in mind of when he’ll move, but it’s going to be soon enough. And it’s just him and Liam in the apartment right now, so if Liam’s going to scream at him, he’d rather get it over with when they’re alone. 

Harry’s at the kitchen table, half-heartedly working on some job applications, and Liam's sitting on the sofa in the living room watching TV. Harry waits for a commercial before he clears his throat and says, “Um. Can we talk?”

It’s strange, asking that. Necessary, though. They haven’t talked properly in a while. 

“Is it about Sam?”

Harry lets out a hollow laugh. “Always is, isn’t it.”

Liam sighs and mutes the TV. “Okay. Sure. Of course.”

A few seconds pass of Harry staring at the keyboard of his laptop, at the turquoise gem of Sam’s ring against his finger. He nods once to himself before saying, “I’m probably going to be moving back home in a little while. Um. Back to Sam’s, I mean.”

Liam stays eerily silent. 

“I’ll keep paying my share of rent until the rental agreement is up. And, uh. If you guys decide to get another roommate, I’d understand, obviously. . .”

Liam takes a full two minutes to respond. When he does, it’s with a hoarse voice just to ask, “Does Louis know?”

“Um, yeah. I haven’t told Niall yet, though.”

Liam doesn’t say anything after that. Not a single peep comes out of him until an hour later, and even then, all he does is drop a kiss to Harry’s head and squeezes his shoulder before he puts his dish in the sink and leaves for his room. It’s. . . Harry doesn’t know what it is, but it leaves him feeling guilty and cold. 

When he tells Niall, he just lets out a long, long sigh and says, “Please make sure you text us every day. Like, day and night. And even then, Louis and Liam will probably be losing their minds with worry. . .”

Harry nods. “Okay. I will.”

“And tell one of us if things start to feel funky,” Niall tells him. “If things start to get tense between you two, let one of us know. Just so we can be ready to come get you or get you help if you need it.”

Harry presses a sweaty hand to his forehand. His friends shouldn’t have to think about saving him. That’s -- God, he’s so selfish. He’s so fucking selfish. “Okay. I will.” He might not, but he likes that the option is there. 

“Suppose we should come up with a code word,” Niall says. Harry thinks it’s a joke, until he doesn’t laugh. He’s being serious. “Maybe, like. Maybe text one of us about. . . about Cheshire. Yeah, that wouldn’t be too suspicious, I don’t think. And -- ”

“Niall,” Harry says softly. “I’ll be okay.”

“And that will mean we have to come get you,” Niall continues. “And maybe. . . maybe say your mum got a new cat if you need us to call the police.”

“Niall. . .”

“Harry.”

Harry sighs and nods. “Okay.”

-

“Do you think you’ll be moved in before Christmas?”

Harry scoffs quietly, squeezing Sam’s hand. They’re on a walk, and they’ve walked probably half a mile from the flat by now. It’s nice. They didn’t used to do this before. “It’s May, darling. I’ll be moved in before Christmas.”

“Thanksgiving?”

“We don’t celebrate Thanksgiving.”

“Yeah, but it’s still a date.’

Harry rolls his eyes fondly before shrugging a shoulder. “Yeah, probably before then.”

“Halloween?”

“Sam.”

“Can I just get an estimate, H?” he asks, sounding a little desperate. “Just. I’m, like. . . I’m really excited to get this right this time. Genuinely. I’m not going to pull anything as soon as you move back in, and I can’t prove that to you until you’ve moved in, you know? I feel like you trust me a bit now, and I want. . . I want to feel like you trust me completely. Like I trust you.”

Harry squints his eyes as he tries to think. There’s no real reason to wait it out when he knows he’s going to move back in, just. . . “Let’s say August,” Harry says, nodding. “Make it a year that we’re back together before we take the next step.”

Sam smiles shyly, innocently. Like a child. “Could be my birthday present.”

“Yeah. Could. Saves me the hassle of thinking of a good present.”

So, it’s decided. August. August will be the start of either something really, really amazing, or something really, really terrible. Harry chooses to believe that gut instincts aren’t always right.

-

The night before he officially moves in with Sam, they have a boys’ night, one last time. 

“Not the last time,” Niall says, shaking his head at Liam. “Harry can come over whenever to hang out.”

“Yeah,” Louis says, and Liam nods. 

So, it’s not the last boys’ night, but it is the last night where they’ll all be living together again. They invite Zayn over, even though he doesn’t live here but close enough. They drink and Louis and Zayn smoke weed and they play card games and video games and just talk a bunch of shit. It’s nice. It’s great. And Harry clings to every moment of it, knowing that he won’t feel this loose and carefree in a long time, even if things do go well with Sam. He’s not completely comfortable with him still. 

Nobody ruins the night by mentioning safety precautions or code words or their disagreement with what Harry is doing. For once, everybody puts that aside so they can just have a really great night together. And they do, and when Harry plops into bed late at night, warm and drunk and sleepy, he smiles against his pillow. 

_Why are you leaving this? I don’t want to leave this,_ knocks against his skull, but Harry doesn’t answer it, just lets it echo in his head without another thought. 

A few seconds after Harry lays down, Louis comes to the room and immediately plops beside him in bed. They don’t say anything; Harry just turns around so Louis can melt into his back and wraps his arms around his middle, and Harry waits for him to get settled before putting his hand over Louis’ arm. 

“I’ll miss you,” Harry whispers. Louis kisses the side of his neck. 

“Don’t. You’re not going anywhere.”

Harry drifts off to sleep to the sound of Louis breathing and that stubborn thought that won’t leave his head, knocking and knocking and knocking. 

-

The first few months living with Sam again are _amazing_. Bloody _fantastic_. They go on walks together and fuck in the early hours of morning and make each other breakfast and dinner. They call each other’s mums and go out on dates. Movies and diners and museums and galleries. And sex. So much sex. Very, very good sex, too. Sam’s happy and Harry’s _beaming_. He’s never, ever felt better before. 

He’s practically glowing, and each and every time he goes somewhere with the boys, they become a little, tiny bit less skeptical. Sam has changed, he wants them to think. He wants them to _know_. He wears t-shirts when he goes out with them and the weather permits so it doesn’t look like he’s hiding anything. It brings him a sick sense of pride, being able to show off the lack of bruises and scratches. 

Sam doesn’t treat him like a prince. Well, he does, but not _just_ a prince. He treats Harry like he’s a normal human being that he happens to be madly in love with. The gifts and the affection and the sex don’t feel forced or manipulative, it feels real and given out of love. It feels like they finally, finally have figured this out. That all those bad years had to happen in order for them to reach this. This state of pure euphoria. 

Harry goes out with at least one of the boys weekly. They make it a habit, not only to check-in on each other but just to keep the connection in general. One week he goes shopping with Louis and the next he has lunch with Liam and the next he goes to some sporting event with Niall. They make it a routine for the five of them to get together at least once a month, and Sam never, ever has a problem with it. He doesn’t seem to mind it at all, which is -- that’s _mad_. Harry used to have to ask permission to go out and show proof of where he went; now, he can say he’ll be back at three, end up getting back in at six, and Sam won’t even care. He’ll just ask if he had a nice time. 

Harry tells this all to Louis and Liam one day while they’re out for coffee, and neither of them look as impressed as Harry thought they would. 

“It just feels a lot like he’s pandering, is all,” Liam says, frowning. “Getting you roped back in and -- ”

“Please don’t. Please be happy for me.”

Louis touches his wrist, his fingers hot from where he was holding his coffee. “We are. If this works out for your two, H, and it’s a healthy, loving relationship, we will be happy for you. You have to realize, though, that, as your friends, it’s our job to be protective.”

“I just don’t see how someone like him could change that quickly,” Liam adds. 

The change didn’t _feel_ quick. It felt like it took _years_. Their time apart felt like an eternity. 

“He hasn’t hit me,” Harry says, eyes wide. “He hasn’t yelled at me or hit me or even looked like he wanted to. And it’s not like we haven’t disagreed on anything before, because we have. We have. We’ve just worked it out well, is all.”

Liam goes to say something negative about that, it’s obvious by his face, but Louis nudges his shoulder with his own and says, “That’s good, Harry,” with a tight smile. 

After he gets home from that meeting, Harry doesn’t feel quite -- validated enough, almost. All their efforts and hurt feel undermined. So, he calls his mum, the one person he can always count on to make their relationship seem like a fairytale. She pulls through, and Harry hangs up the call when Sam gets in feeling like he’s climbed his way back to cloud nine. 

-

It’s Christmas night that Harry’s happy, little bubble is popped. And to think he was unsuspecting of it, as if Christmas wasn’t always terrible for them in the past. Holidays in general. It’s almost like he forgot, but when Sam blows up on him, Harry suddenly remembers very, very clearly. 

They were supposed to go back to Chesire for the holidays, is the thing. Tomorrow evening, they were supposed to drive over and stay in a motel so they could both visit their families for a few days. They were debating how long they were staying; Harry wanted to stay until New Year’s, Sam only wanted to stay for three days. It was fine, it’s not like they were arguing about it or anything. But this morning, Sam randomly decided that they weren’t going at all. He said it like it was final, like he would get mad if Harry challenged it, so he didn’t. Until dinner, when they were both on their third glass of wine and the curiosity got the better of him. It’s not like he doesn’t have a right to know why he suddenly can’t see his family anymore. 

He asks about it so politely, is the thing. He tries to be kind about it. 

“Hey, love?” he asks, folding one of his legs underneath him. They’re sitting at the kitchen table eating dinner with a Christmas movie playing on in the background. Sam’s wearing a Christmas-themed jumper and Harry has on the matching bottoms. It feels stupid, once everything happens. “Why don’t you want to go to Cheshire anymore?”

Sam doesn’t say anything, just forks at the green beans on his plate. 

“Did something happen?”

Again, no response. Harry frowns and sets down his fork so he can set a comforting hand on Sam’s forearm. “Darling, if something -- ”

“Jesus Christ, Harry,” Sam spits, yanking his arm away from Harry’s. “Let it go, will you? We aren’t fucking going.”

Harry slowly retracts his arm as he tries to soothe his racing heart. Sam isn’t mad. Well, yes, maybe he is, but not with Harry. Harry hasn’t done anything wrong, and Sam hasn’t -- he wouldn’t just get mad at him like this out of nowhere. It isn’t like before. And not on Christmas, not when he made a cheesy joke this morning about how Harry should have been sitting under the Christmas tree as Sam’s gift. 

“Okay,” he says quietly, nodding. “Okay. I’m sorry.”

“You’re always sorry.”

Harry has no idea what’s happening. 

“You’re always so fucking sorry, you know that?” Sam snaps. “But it’s odd how the one person constantly apologizing can’t seem to take blame for anything. It’s always me, right? I’m the bad guy? I don’t want want to go home for Christmas, and now you’re going to go run and chat shit about me to your friends, all the while you sit here and tell me how fucking _sorry_ you are.”

“I understand if you don’t want to go home, Sam. That’s okay. I didn’t mean anything bad by it.”

Sam scoffs and shakes his head. “Yeah, sure.”

Tears immediately pricked his eyes when Sam first snapped at him, so by now, they’re threatening to spill. He stares down at his dinner plate, trying to figure out if eating will make the tears go away. It’s always so hard to eat when he’s scared, though. 

His eyes must look wet, or his face must be red. Something gives away the fact that he’s about to cry, because Sam slams his hands against the table, making Harry jolt in panic, and he snaps, “God, how are you always fucking crying?”

“I’m sorry,” Harry blurts, and then immediately regrets it. “I’m -- I won’t cry, I’m s -- you haven’t done anything wrong, I know that. It’s just me being emotional, I’m s -- I won’t cry.”

It’s startling, how easy he can slip back into knowing the best way to be malleable for Sam. How to act, what to say, what he wants. 

“I don’t think this is very fucking fair,” Sam shouts, standing up. He doesn’t get in Harry’s space, but he could very easily. All it would take is a tiny step. Harry resists the urge to shield himself. “How do you expect me to stay sane when I have to walk on eggshells in order to make you happy, huh? I look at you wrong and you cry, and somehow it’s my fault. Don’t you see how unfair that is? How do you expect me to stay calm when you do that?”

Harry hasn’t cried in a long time, he has no idea what Sam is talking about. He’s not going to correct him, though, obviously. He wouldn’t dare. 

After one last loud curse because Harry doesn’t respond, he storms out of the room. Harry stays put for a few minutes before quietly clearing his throat and grabbing his phone. He’s not quite sure what to do. Staying without even defending himself would send them straight down the path identical to the last time. Leaving seems too dramatic, too dangerous. So, he waits Sam out. He’ll decide what to do next based on his mood. For now, all he can really do is finish his dinner and try to take his mind off his racing heart. 

Sam comes back out of the room not even ten minutes later. Harry’s still at the table, poking at his food. Once he sees him, he sets his phone down, but he doesn’t say anything. Too scared to, honestly. And when Sam sits back down at the table, Harry’s anxiety kicks up so quickly that it hurts. 

“I’m sorry,” Sam says quietly. His voice is strained, almost. After he takes a long sip of wine, he says, “Let’s just forget about it. It’s Christmas.”

It takes more courage than Harry thought possible to clear his throat and respond. “I think we should talk about it. I think we have to.”

Sam looks irritated; it’s in the clench of his jaw and hard stare and the way he rolls back his shoulders. “Why?”

“Because you’re upset about something,” Harry says carefully. “And you don’t deserve to be upset just as much as I do. If we talk, you know, maybe. . . maybe you won’t get mad again.”

His hands are shaking, so he puts them underneath the table and squeezes them together. 

“I’m allowed to get mad, Harry.”

“You’re allowed to be angry, sure. I know that. But -- you know. Maybe, like. If you could not shout at me. . .”

Louis and Liam would be proud of him for standing up for himself, he thinks. Even if it’s through roundabout phrases and weakly-spoken words. And they’d be grateful to see that Sam isn’t losing his shit on Harry right now. Before, if Harry would have said any of that, he would most definitely be on the floor by now for one reason or another. 

Sam rolls his eyes, but it’s half-hearted. He rubs a hand over his face and looks down at the table. “I don’t want anybody at home thinking I’ve turned soft.”

Harry pulls back, confused. That’s -- he assumed it was something he had done. He frowns. “Why would anyone think that, Sam?”

“Because we’re different now,” he says, tone hard. “We’re -- different. Us. It’s not the same.”

And that’s not a good sign. Objectively, Harry knows that’s not good. Sam is embarrassed that they have a somewhat healthy relationship now, what does that even mean? That means he thinks it’s wrong. Shameful. That means that maybe this really all has been an act. Or -- or maybe Sam’s just working through something, trying to break through some mentality and he’s struggling with it. Harry prays that it’s the latter. 

“Nobody would think differently of you for being nicer to me. I don’t understand.”

Sam rolls his eyes again. “Of course you wouldn’t.”

“Sam,” Harry says, a little urgent. “I think it’s a lot more admirable to treat your partner as an equal. I think a lot of people would think that. I thought. . . I thought we were both happy with the direction that we’ve been moving in.”

All Sam does is shrug stiffly. Terrified and confused, Harry reaches out to set a gentle hand on Sam’s forearm. Sam doesn’t shake him away, but he doesn’t return the touch. 

“Nobody’s going to even notice a difference in us,” Harry whispers. “It’s not like you treated me badly in front of people before.”

Sam exhales loudly before saying, “I guess.” He pats at Harry’s hand, then, so it’s probably over with. It’s figured out. He most likely won’t get mad again tonight, but he shouldn’t have gotten mad in the first place. Harry doesn’t understand. An hour later, Sam says they’ll stay until the twenty-ninth and Harry almost doesn’t even want to go anymore. It’s -- he didn’t know that Sam thought highly of himself for the horrible ways he treated Harry. He didn’t realize he thought that was impressive, or something. That’s sick. 

The problem is, Harry thinks Sam’s a hurt individual lashing out. He looks at his outbursts as a build-up of overwhelming emotions. He takes the hits as Sam not knowing how to communicate better. He probably didn’t think of it like that before, but that’s how he has come to terms with it in his mind. The others see Sam as a sick, twisted person who is evil to his core and him getting angry is him not being able to keep the act together anymore. Harry never really agreed with them before, but looking at Sam now, as the words from earlier ring around his head, maybe they’re right. Maybe Sam is just a bad person. Maybe it’s really that simple. 

They have sex tonight, and it’s the first time in over a year that he didn’t realy want to but was too scared to say no. If he said no, Sam might’ve gotten irritated with him. Or he might’ve not taken no as an answer, and Harry’s far too scared about going through that again. So, he coaxes himself into the mood for the sake of not ruining their not further. It’s Christmas, after all. 

After Sam’s gone to bed, Harry turns over and goes on his phone. Louis’ texted him. They’ve been texting pretty much non-stop these last few days, between Christmas Eve and Louis’ birthday and Christmas day. Louis has sent him a picture of a dog in a Christmas sweater and says, _Hope you and Sam had a good Christmas H xx_. 

_It was our best Christmas in a while,_ he sends back with a smiley face. It’s not a lie. But it’s quite a miserable thing, realizing that the most he can really ask for is to not be physically abused. Those are his standards, apparently. If Sam doesn’t hurt him, even if he does shout, he still counts it as a good day. 

If he hadn’t gotten back with Sam, he’d be at his mum’s right now, probably. Or maybe with one of the boys’ families. Niall has non-stop been saying he wants to get Harry to Ireland for ages. And any one of those -- his mum’s house, Doncaster, Ireland, Wolverhampton, Bradford, even just being by himself at the old flat -- would have been nicer than today. And that’s just shit, isn’t it. 

-

All things are forgiven by the time they get to Holmes Chapel the next day. Sam’s back in good spirits, treating Harry nicely and like he wants to. Harry does his best not to forget what happened yesterday, but to not cling to it so fiercely, either. It could have just been a one-time thing. Sam apologized almost immediately after. That’s a good sign. 

The entire trip, they get along and have a good time. They visit both their families, and Sam listens to Harry without protest when Harry refuses to even consider having sex in his childhood room with his mother just down the hall. 

It’s a good time, it really is, so Harry lets the tiny outburst go. 

-

Things between Sam and Harry go back to -- can he call them being in a healthy relationship normal now? He hopes so, so he will. They go back to normal, and they don’t fight, and Sam doesn’t shout. For months, they do fine. As each day passes, Harry trusts him more and becomes more and more comfortable in the possibility that Sam might actually be a changed man. 

What happens at the beginning of April makes Harry start to doubt that. 

It’s the third of April, and Sam’s friends from uni are over. They’re loud and they drink and talk about girls in a way that makes Harry cringe, but it’s whatever. Harry drinks, too, although not nearly as much as everyone else. He doesn’t want to get sloppy in front of Sam’s friends; Sam wouldn’t like that. 

After they leave, Sam and Harry keep drinking. Harry doesn’t think anything of it, Sam encouraging him to drink and drink and drink. Sam is drinking, too, and there is no reason to doubt why his boyfriend wants to get drunk with him. He doesn’t realize until the next morning that maybe it was weird for Sam to want Harry to drink so much. It was weird that, even though they had a half-full bottle of whiskey in front of them, Sam went to the kitchen for a few minutes to grab a bottle of gin even though he knows gin has a way of getting Harry particularly hungover. He brought them two new shot glasses, and Harry drank just like he had all night. He had no reason to question anything. 

Now, he’s questioning a lot of things. 

It’s the following morning, Sam’s at work, and Harry hasn’t gotten out of bed. He’s hungover as shit, and it’s. . . different than usual. He doesn’t just feel like the normal type of death, it’s like. He can’t even explain it. His head feels fuzzy and his body feels a bit tingly and, terrifyingly, he can’t remember anything after a certain point in the night. He remembers drinking gin with Sam, and he remembers them joking about flying to Paris, and then it stops. It just stops, like his brain is a broken record. He’s gotten black-out drunk before, he has, but it’s. Usually it comes back to him in bits and pieces. Usually it’s something to laugh about the next morning. Right now, he feels sick to his stomach with dread and doesn’t feel like laughing very much. 

Maybe a gap in his memory wouldn’t be so concerning -- he had been drinking heavily, after all -- if it wasn’t for the ache in his lower back and arse. It was the first thing he registered when he woke up this morning, that sharp, constant ache that only comes after sex. After somewhat rough or rushed sex. He’s been awake for an hour, and he’s paralyzed in bed with fear. The only thing he’s managed to do is slip a hand under the covers to check for blood. His hands found something a little wet, and he choked on a sob thinking that it was blood, but when he gained the courage to pull his hand back out into the light, he realized it was just come or lube. It would be more reassuring if he remembered it being put there in the first place. 

There has not been a single time in their entire relationship where Harry hasn’t recalled the sex they had. Every time it was good, every time it was bad, he remembered it the next day. Every time. So why not this morning?

He doesn’t let himself even think about the possibility of being drugged until he’s standing in the bathroom mirror, staring at the bruises on his hips and the decent-sized hickey on his upper thigh, right where his bum and leg meet. 

It’s surreal, trying to think of an explanation, because none of them are ones he wants to be thinking of. 

Sam hasn’t drugged him before. Ever. As far as he knows, anyway. He doesn’t think Sam is that type of messed up, either. But he was with his friends last night, who maybe are that type. _She was playing hard to get, but after some convincing, I had that bitch bent over the counter and fucked her bare._ Nate was the one who said that, he’s pretty sure. And all of Sam’s friends laughed, including Sam himself. 

He clings to the idea that it was one of Sam’s friends who drugged him for as long as he possibly can. But it just doesn’t make a lot of sense, does it. Harry’s memory falls off a while after they left; he doesn’t know much about drugs, but it would be quicker to hit him, wouldn’t it? And Harry can’t stop thinking about that first glass of gin. About how Sam randomly switched up the alcohol, got them new glasses, and took a few minutes to come back to the living room. When it really locks into his brain, that being the most realistic theory, he throws up into the toilet bowl and _sobs_. 

He has been assaulted. Again. By his own boyfriend. Again. By the boyfriend he willingly came back to. And he can’t even remember it. Part of him thinks it’s merciful, him not recalling what happened, but the bigger part of him thinks it’s tortuous, not knowing exactly what Sam did to him. Where he touched him. 

Needing to get out of the flat, he texts Niall asking if they can go out for dinner today. Niall says he can’t, so he goes to Louis next. Louis answers his text while Harry’s sliding on a pair of pants after his shower. He’s going to go outside for a bit whether anybody wants to come with him or not. He can’t be here right now. 

_I’m siiiick :( Had to stay home from work today. But you can come over if you don’t mind me being a little germy x_

Harry slips on a shirt before texting him back. _Be there in 15._

Each step towards the car sends a twinge of pain up his back, and he’s near tears by the time he gets to get to the car. He pushes it down, though. Forces himself to focus. He drives to the old apartment with intense concentration on everything that isn’t what may or may not have happened last night, and when he arrives, he doesn’t bother answering or looking at Sam’s recent texts before heading to the right apartment. He has a key, so he lets himself in, and Louis’ curled up on the couch with a box of tissues next to him and a big, fluffy blanket over him. And there’s an empty tea mug next to him, Harry notices, so he takes his shoes off before grabbing and telling Louis he’ll make him more tea. 

“Thanks,” Louis says, and his voice is a little hoarse. He’s proper sick, then. Harry feels bad for him, but is secretly thankful that he has a way to busy himself. Louis goes through a cup of tea fast, and he probably won’t say no to Harry refilling it every time. 

“I thought you worked most Tuesdays,” Louis says. 

Harry shrugs. “I only work weekends now.” He cut his hours because he wanted to spend more time with Sam, which seems incredibly stupid considering they bloody live together and Sam works eight hours a day. 

God, he’s so fucking angry. And stupid.

“Oh. ‘Kay.”

Since Louis is sick, they don't do much that requires getting up off the couch. Which is fine, honestly. They play Mario Kart on the TV and Harry makes them a late lunch and, when Louis gets bored of the game, they pull up Netflix on Louis’ laptop. They watch a couple episodes of _Peaky Blinders,_ and by the third episode, Niall comes home and joins them. One more episode and then Liam’s in, too. 

Harry’s about to press play on the fifth when Louis grabs his wrist and tells him to come check out their room. Their room, he says their room, and it doesn’t even seem like it’s on purpose. It’s like it just slipped. 

“Jesus, you and those lights,” Liam mutters as they walk to Louis’ room. Harry’s a bit confused -- everything looks the same -- until Louis grabs a remote, presses a button, and the lights turn green. Another button, pink. Another button, red. When Harry glances back at Louis, he’s grinning. 

“It is pretty sick,” Harry admits, smiling a bit himself. 

“Yeah, it is. Liam helped me with it.” 

It’s quiet for a second, and then, “You haven’t looked at your phone once since coming here. You’re avoiding Sam. What happened?” His tone leaves no room for denial, so Harry doesn’t even try to pretend like everything’s fine. He’s not entirely honest, but Louis wouldn’t know the difference. 

“Sam had some friends over last night,” Harry mumbles, rolling his eyes. “They were pricks. Talked awful about their girlfriends. Just annoyed me, is all. I’ll probably bring it up tonight.”

It’s a version of the truth, so he sounds believable. It must be while Louis seemingly buys it. “Oh,” he says. “Hate guys like that. Just be careful, yeah?”

Harry suppresses a scoff. “Yeah, I will.”

He leaves about a half hour later. Sam’s been home by himself for about an hour and a half now, and he’s texted Harry a handful of times without any response. Harry wants to be petty for once, wants to completely blow off Sam like he’s done to him countless times before, but he’s not like that and doesn’t want to be so he calls Sam just as he backs out of the parking lot. Sam answers, and he isn’t angry. Harry offers to grab take-out, and he agrees, so Harry gets home about a half hour later with Asian food. 

Most of the time, Harry can block out trauma to get through the day. He has to, if he wants to live a life without his brain crashing every few minutes. It’s like there’s a switch in his head, kind of. Or maybe not a switch, just. He can sometimes control when he shuts that part of his brain off. He plans on not bringing it up for a while, but when he sees Sam, his whole body runs hot and fear nearly strangles him. 

Sam assaulted him last night, and now he’s kissing Harry’s cheek and asking him if he had a nice time. 

“Yeah,” Harry mumbles, handing him the take-out. He takes his shoes and coat off before standing there, a bit awkwardly. Sam goes to the kitchen and says he’ll make them a plate. Harry immediately follows him, hysterically thinking that Sam might drug his food, too. 

Being with Sam just teaches him new ways to be paranoid. 

Harry fully plans on waiting to bring it up until at least after dinner, but as Sam stands there, posture loose and humming a Stormzy song, he can’t take it anymore. He must be wrong about what he thinks happened if Sam is acting so normal. 

“Sam,” he says slowly, sitting down at the kitchen table. “Did we have sex last night?”

Sam laughs, glancing at him briefly. After licking sauce off his fingers, he says, “No. You were completely wasted. How was your hungover this morning, hmm?”

“Are you sure?”

Harry can’t look at him, so he stares at his hands. 

“Yeah, I think I’d remember that, bub. Why? Have a good dream or something?” 

He comes over with their plates and sets one down in front of Harry. He grabs him a glass of water, too, before sitting down across from him. Harry feels genuinely ill, his head hot and fuzzy and his body weak. 

“Why are you lying?” he asks, voice tired and small. 

Sam sighs loudly. “What are you saying now, Harry?”

“I woke up hurting,” Harry says. He finally looks at Sam again, and he doesn’t look angry, just confused. Surely, if Sam was being caught it a lie, he’d be angry. Maybe Harry’s wrong. God, what if he’s wrong? He can’t be, though. No. 

“You fell last night when we were going to bed. Crashed right on your arse. Do you really not remember?”

Harry didn’t say it was his bum that hurt, but maybe it was implied by his line of questioning. 

“There was,” his cheeks burn, and he clears his throat. “There was, like. Come and lube in me and on the back of my thighs.”

It occurs to him that this shouldn’t be how the conversation is going. Why is Harry acting so meek? That’s -- he should be demanding answers, because he has pretty damning evidence. When did he become so weak?

Sam makes a face. “We had sex yesterday morning. Maybe -- ”

“Sam,” Harry interrupts, frowning. “That’s not how it works. I showered after we had sex. And even if I didn’t, it wouldn’t have been so, like. Fresh.” He cringes, bites on his bottom lip. “Can you just tell me what happened? I don’t remember much.”

“Now _I_ want to know what happened, because I certainly didn’t fuck you last night.” He laughs, and it’s a little restrained. “Maybe you had a wet dream, or something.”

“I have bruises on my hips,” Harry says mildly. “In the shape of _your_ fingertips.”

“We had sex _yesterday morning_ , Harry.”

“But it wasn’t that rough. You didn’t make bruises.” He feels himself becoming frantic. “You -- I have this hickey on my thigh, too. You didn’t make that yesterday morning.”

Sam furrows his eyebrows. “Yes, I did. After I blew you. Are you feeling okay? Genuinely, H, are you feeling sick?”

Harry puts a shaking hand to his forehead. God, maybe he’s making this all up. Maybe the constant paranoia has finally gotten the better of him. But that’s -- no, there’s no way, he had come _in him_ , there’s -- 

“But what about the come in me,” he says shakily. He thinks he might actually throw up. God, how awful of a boyfriend is he if he just somehow made this entire thing up? Sam must feel so wronged right now. 

“I don’t know,” Sam says, voice soft. Concerned. “But the sheets were clean, H. I laid in bed for a bit when I got home, and there was no jizz on anything. Were you wearing clothes? I don’t remember.”

Harry shakes his head. He was naked. Surely, some come would have gotten on the bedding. Maybe not, though. Or maybe it was small enough to miss. But they have a black duvet, surely _something_ would be on that. One of them always manages to make it dirty. 

“I usually don’t get so drunk like that,” Harry whispers. He feels completely insane. “Why -- I can’t remember the last time I couldn’t remember the night before.”

“Maybe it was the gin. Maybe you were so drunk that you had a really bad dream that felt super real. That happens sometimes, doesn’t it?”

Harry feels faint. It wasn’t -- it wasn’t a fucking dream. Harry’s not making this up, he’s not. This is -- God, he wishes he could just _remember_.

“Harry, love. You’re worrying me.”

Harry shakes his head, tears threatening to pour over. “I’m sorry,” he croaks out, putting his head in his hands. God, Sam could deck him over the head and it’d be completely deserved. Accusing him of -- accusing him of _that_ when it didn’t even happen. “I’m so sorry, Sam, it -- it must’ve been a bad dream. It -- God, I’m sorry.”

Maybe it wasn’t come, maybe it was just sweat. Maybe -- no, that doesn’t make sense, does it, but what -- 

“It’s okay, sweetheart,” Sam whispers, coming over to him. He bends down next to his chair and grabs his hands off his face. He looks so concerned. Fucking hell, he probably think Harry’s lost his mind. “Maybe you should lie down for a bit, yeah? I can package up the food and we can eat later.”

Harry feels incredibly frail and vulnerable, but when he hunches down and hides his face in Sam’s neck, he feels a little more sane. 

“I’m so sorry,” he says again, shaking his head. “I didn’t -- I should’ve known that you wouldn’t do that. I was just so confused.”

“It’s okay. I understand.”

Tears finally spring free. “But I feel bad,” he says, sniffling. “I’m so sorry.”

“H, love. I messed with your head a lot before. I completely understand that you might struggle with some stuff still. There’s nothing wrong with that. Maybe -- maybe getting that drunk with me brought up bad memories, I don’t know.”

Yeah, maybe. But no, because Harry and Sam got wasted on tequila a few months ago and Harry didn’t wake up thinking Sam assaulted him. Maybe he’s just losing his bloody mind, for real this time. 

“Come on, let’s get you to bed,” Sam says, helping him to his feet. Harry feels surprisingly shaky and faint, so he latches onto him for balance. Harry lets himself be guided to bed, tucked in, his forehead kissed. When Sam leaves to go put the food away, Harry sits up and frantically searches the duvet for any stains, but Sam was right. It’s clean. 

Harry’s an absolutely awful person. And if he could make this up, if he could be so convinced that this happened, what else has he convinced himself of in the past?

-

Either Sam is playing mind-games with him, or Harry is genuinely losing his mind. It’s terrifying, having no idea which is more realistic. On one hand, Sam has a history that could indicate this happening. But Sam has never gone as far as to make Harry legitimately question his sanity, and besides, he’s being kind. Kind and nice and supportive. When Harry forgets something, or misplaces something, or thinks he told Sam something that he didn’t, Sam stays patient with him. 

It’s been two months since the whole assault incident. Harry hasn’t convinced himself of anything big like that again, but there has been smaller stuff. Like how he swore Sam said they needed bread but he came back from the store to a whole loaf already on the counter, or how he keeps misplacing things, or how he remembers stories differently than they were apparently told. It only ever happens with Sam, and that’s suspicious in itself, but Sam says it’s probably because he is the center of his past trauma. And, well. That makes sense. 

Today, Harry gets in from work late. It’s eight, and Sam is going home for a few days to go to a friend’s wedding tomorrow. But Sam isn’t packed, and he’s laying on the couch, seemingly unbothered. 

“Hey,” he says, sitting next to him. “You packed yet? I can help.”

Sam glances at him. “Packed for what?”

That familiar sinking feeling is back. He’s messed something up again, hasn’t he. His brain is always so scrambling it feels like, how does Sam put up with him? It’s a miracle he hasn’t been hit yet. He honestly wouldn’t blame Sam. It must be so frustrating, dating someone who can’t keep anything straight anymore. 

“I thought Scott’s wedding was this weekend,” he says quietly. Immediately, Sam’s face tells him that he’s wrong. “I thought -- shit. Is it next weekend?”

“It’s next month, babe.”

But that’s -- no, Harry swears he remembers saying a June wedding would be nice. Yet, when he gets up to get himself a glass of water, he sees the invite on the counter. Sure enough, it’s July. It’s not normal to have all these false memories. What is happening to him?

“I was going to spend the night at the old flat tomorrow because I thought you were out this weekend and I didn’t want to be home alone,” Harry confesses into Sam’s chest a few minutes later. “I could’ve sworn it was this weekend.”

“It’s fine, love. Go spend the weekend with the boys. Might do you good.”

And if Sam was the one doing this to him, he wouldn’t encourage him to go out with his friends for an extended period of time. _He wouldn’t_. 

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, love. Go have fun.”

Harry closes his eyes. “Maybe I should see someone. Like, a therapist.”

“You’re just a little stressed out, honey,” Sam soothes. “A therapist will just say you’re crazy and give you meds without listening to you. It’s fine, babe. Forgetting a few things doesn’t mean anything.”

“But maybe something’s wrong with my head.”

“I don’t think so, but. I don’t know, H. A therapist would get you on meds that’ll really mess up your head.”

“Yeah. You’re right.”

The following day, Harry’s at lunch with Louis, Liam, Niall and Zayn. They’re all eating and talking together, and Harry’s quietly off to the side. He’s scared that he’s going to start doing it with them, too. Messing things up. He doesn’t need everyone in his life annoyed with him. 

Halfway through lunch, Niall bumps his knee with his own. “You’re quiet today. You alright?”

Harry nods once. “Yeah. Fine.”

“What’s the matter?” Liam says, kind of sternly. And Harry doesn’t see why he shouldn’t tell them. They’re his friends. He genuinely thinks it’s his head and that it doesn’t have anything to do with Sam, so he doesn’t lie. 

After he explains everything -- minus the assault incident -- they’re all looking at him like he’s stupid, which is exactly what he feared. Louis exchanges a look with Liam, Liam to Zayn, Niall to Louis. Harry sits there, feeling broken. Like his brain is rotting as they speak. 

“Sam says I shouldn’t see anyone about it,” Harry tells them. “He doesn’t think a therapist would help. But I should see someone, right?”

Again, they all exchange a lot between each other. Liam’s the only one with the guts to say it. 

“He’s messing with your head, Harry.”

Harry frowns. “Who, Sam?” Liam nods, and Harry sighs, frustrated. “I know you don’t like him, but -- ”

“Harry,” Louis says softly, shaking his head. “That’s textbook gaslighting.”

Harry’s so, so confused. 

Zayn nods grimly. “Took a psych class and learned about it.”

“And me and Niall and Louis have read up on the signs of abuse,” Liam tells him. “It’s literally textbook gaslighting, Harry.”

“The fuck does that even mean?” Harry snaps, beyond confused and hurt and fucking _confused._ God, he’s so confused. Right now, he thinks that he’s losing his fucking mind. “You can’t just keep saying it, I don’t understand.”

Niall has his phone pulled out, and he reads from it. “‘Gaslighting. To manipulate someone by psychological means into questioning their own sanity.’ Another one says it’s when someone, ‘covertly sows seeds of doubt making them question their own memory, perception or judgment.’ And that sounds exactly what you just said is happening.”

“And of course it’s only happening when you’re with Sam,” Liam adds. 

Zayn says, “And he doesn’t want you seeing a therapist because they could spot that in about two seconds. And -- ”

“Okay,” Harry interrupts sternly. “Okay. I get it. I don’t want to talk about it anymore.” Liam tries to say something else, but Harry tells him very firmly to shut the hell up. He doesn’t need to hear anything else. 

It’s difficult what would be easier; accepting that maybe they are right and Sam is playing tricks with his brain, or continuing on the path thinking he’s absolutely lost his mind. If he believes them, then he has to face the fact that Sam is still messing with him. _Abusing_ him is probably the right phrase. And he also has to deal with the fact that he is still so vulnerable, vulnerable enough to believe that his mind is failing him over believing Sam is. That’s embarrassing. But if he continues on believing that he’s crazy and he’s actually not, then he sure as hell _will_ go crazy. It’s exhausting, doubting every little thing all the time. 

The rest of the night has a bit of a black cloud over it now, but Harry tries to make the most of it. He has to, because tomorrow he’s going back home and has to see for himself if it’s really just Sam trying to break his brain. That’s fucked if that is what he’s doing. Making someone question their sanity is monstrous. And for what? It’s not like Harry was acting out. He’s still submissive in almost all aspects of their relationship. So, if Sam is really doing that to him, either he thinks it’s a way to feel tough, or he thinks it’s fun. 

After lunch, they go out mini golfing. Louis is so bad at it that he gives up, choosing to sit on the grass instead of participating. More than a few times, he interferes with the others’ plays, irritating both Liam and Niall. Harry’s kind of bad at this too, so the new obstacle just makes him laugh. 

When they get home, they start a show that Liam swears up and down isn’t boring. They only get twenty minutes into it before Harry decides that it actually is. It’s fine, though. Harry would rather be here, with Louis’ body pressed firmly against him on one side and Zayn on the other. If he was home, Sam would have just gotten in from work, probably with a new idea in his head about how he could fuck with Harry some more. 

As Harry’s blankly staring at the TV screen, focusing more on the bag of chips in between him and Zayn than anything else, a wash of heat melts over him. If Sam really is just messing with him, if Harry hasn’t been wrong about anything thus far, then he really was assaulted that night. Then -- and _of course I was_ goes through his head, because deep, deep, deep down, he had always sort of known that it was true. Kind of. It’s complicated. But more things pointed in the direction of Harry being assaulted that night rather than him losing his mind. For that event, Harry had actual evidence to back him up, it wasn’t just some minor date he messed up. 

Desperate not to believe that, he decides that it wasn’t assault. It was -- Sam’s his boyfriend, and maybe he made the wrong call in deciding to fuck him when he was that drunk, but that’s all it was. A wrong decision. Not a crime, not assault. Just a bit of lapse in judgment. And to believe that, Harry has to believe that he wasn’t drugged, that he was just super hammered. Which -- sure. Sure. He can convince himself of that, he can. For his sake, he has to. 

After the fifth time Liam says, “I swear to God, it gets good, just wait,” Louis rests his head on Harry’s shoulder and lets out a small sigh, and it almost makes Harry _cry_. He hates himself and he hates Sam and he hates what he’s done and what happened to him, but he doesn’t hate Louis. He doesn’t hate any of these boys. So why did he go to Sam birthday’s party almost two years ago? Why did that seem like such a good idea then, but a horrible one now? And why will he totally believe it was a good idea again tomorrow?

Sam is fucked up, but clearly Harry is, too. Maybe that makes it okay. 

Harry tilts his head so his cheek is lying against Louis’ head and closes his eyes. 

-

It really was just Sam playing with him all along. These last two months while Harry was panicking, thinking his brain was scrambled, it was just Sam all along. 

He starts writing down everything Sam says to him. Literally fucking everything. He writes it all down in his phone, and when Sam gets that sad look as he tells Harry he’s wrong again, Harry can check his phone and see that no, he wasn’t wrong. It’s liberating and infuriating all at once. How fucking _dare_ Sam think he can just fuck with his head like that. 

But he can’t confront him, can he. No. He just has to stay this quiet, submissive, worthless thing while Sam continues to get off on thinking he’s breaking Harry’s brain. 

And that makes Harry think: what does Sam need him even weaker for? What is the goal here? And it’s not hard to figure out. If Harry thinks he’s insane and that Sam is the only one who will ever stay patient enough and want to be with him, then he’ll stay when things start to get rough again. That’s where Sam wants him: thinking that there’s nobody else that could ever love him. It’s _disgusting_ , yet Harry stays. Yet Harry genuinely enjoys his time with him most of the time. Yet Harry continues to let Sam fuck him, even after what he did.

-

Harry puts up with it for a long time. Too long. But one weekend in September, he has had enough with letting Sam think he’s slick. He’s not fucking fooling anyone, not anymore. 

When Harry wakes up to Sam getting ready for work on a day he knows for a fact he said he had off, something inside him breaks and he can’t keep his mouth shut. 

“I thought you had today off,” Harry says, sitting up in bed. Sam’s straightening his tie in the mirror, and Harry can see him get that stupid patient look on his face. 

“No, love. I have Thursday off.”

Harry shakes his head. “You told me you had Tuesday off.”

“It’s okay, love. Tuesday and Thursday sort of sound the same. It was just a mistake.”

“No, it wasn’t,” Harry says, a little hotly. He’s so fucking _sick_ of letting Sam get away with this. His anger blinds everything else. “You said Tuesday. I remember because I texted my mum right after you told me that to tell her that today would be a good day to call you. She wants to ask you what your mum wants for her birthday.”

Sam turns to look at him. Judging by the look on his face, he thinks Harry will let this go. And he fucking _won’t,_ he will _not_. 

“H, there’s no need to get so worked up. Mistakes happen.”

“Why the _fuck_ do you think you can just lie to me?” Harry snaps, and he’s never talked to Sam like this before. Absolutely never. Sam looks shocked. “How fucking stupid do you think I am?”

Sam raises his eyebrows at him. “You need to watch your tone,” he says calmly, but still somehow so threateningly. 

“I don’t _need_ to do anything. What I _need_ is for my fucking boyfriend to stop playing mind games with me all the goddamn time. I mean, what the _fuck_ , Sam? How come me loving you isn't enough? Why do you have to add all this shit to it?”

He feels completely out of control right now, anger and adrenaline in a race in his veins. So maybe Sam got what he wanted after all. 

“Shut the fuck up,” Sam seethes. “I don’t know who the fuck you think you’re talking to, but -- ”

“ _You_ ,” Harry interrupts, jutting a finger at him. “I’m talking to _you._ I’m talking to my _boyfriend_ who can’t stop trying to break me in one way or the other.”

Sam gives him one terrifying look before leaving the room, slamming the door on the way out. And Harry shouldn’t go after him. He should probably stay in here for the rest of the day, trying to find a way to fix this. But he doesn’t want to fix it. He doesn’t fucking _care_ anymore. He is so _done._ He just wants to love Sam without everything having to be so difficult. 

He gets out of bed, puts a shirt on, and follows Sam out. Sam’s in the kitchen, pouring himself a cup of coffee, and when he sees Harry, he looks both equal parts confused and furious. 

“Maybe you really have lost your goddamn mind,” Sam says. 

Harry snorts. “I lost my mind a long fucking time ago. Why the fuck else would I ever agree to get back with you?”

It doesn’t even feel good. He keeps yelling and fighting because he thinks that’s what he needs, but it’s still not enough. He’s scared nothing will ever be enough to fix this -- this damage inside of him. 

“You better stop talking, Harry. Before you say something you regret.”

“Why, are you going to hit me?” Harry fires back. His voice cracks, but he isn’t scared or sad, all he is is fuming. “You can’t control me, so you’re going to put me back in my place by hitting me? Really? Is that what’s going to happen?”

Sam slowly sets his cup of coffee on the kitchen counter like he’s debating the idea. Harry is so _sick_ of this. 

“Are you going to assault me afterwards, too?” he asks, and his voice cracks again, goddammit. “Like you did back in April?”

Sam looks amused. “Nothing happened in April, Harry.”

“You drugged and then raped me,” he says. “ _That’s_ what happened in April.”

He can see it, the switch going off in Sam’s brain. It’s so clear. Sam lets out a dark laugh and shakes his head. “And what if I did?” he asks. “What the fuck are you going to do about it? Absolutely nothing. Because you’re _weak_.”

“Yeah, I am. I am weak. But I’m not weak enough to feel intimidated by my boyfriend to the point that I try to break him. I’m not as weak as you are.”

And _that_ feels good. For all of two seconds, it feels amazing. And then it’s placed with complete terror, because Sam takes a step forward and flexes his fingers. 

“How do you know it was just me?” Sam asks, taunting. “How do you know that my mates didn’t stay back so they could have a piece of you, too?”

Harry blanches, and Sam laughs. 

“You didn’t think about that, huh?” He takes another step forward, and Harry takes one back. “Who knows whose come you even had in you when you woke up. Oh, wait no, it was mine. Because after the boys had a go at you, I went to sleep and before I went to work, I fucked you again. I thought you would have woken up, I wanted you to, but you were still so goddamn asleep.”

Harry feels faint. He feels terrible and sick to his stomach, like he might puke. He feels a lot, but regret isn’t one of them. Not yet. 

“Or maybe I didn’t,” he says, shrugging. “Maybe it was just me. Maybe I only fucked you once, or maybe I did it over and over and over. You’ll never know. Is it going to drive you mad, not knowing?”

Harry swallows thickly. “I don’t know why you’re like this,” he whispers, the tears evident in his voice. “All I’ve ever been is good to you.”

“Because you’re so fucking stupid,” Sam says. He’s gotten closer, but Harry doesn’t remember him taking another step. “You’re really fucking dumb, do you know that? It’s infuriating trying to have a conversation with you, you’re so goddamn simpleminded. And the way you _whine._ God, how you can whine. You’re so pathetic, H, it’s sad you don’t see it.”

What happens next is so incredibly fast that Harry can’t even keep up with it. He thought he had time before the hitting started, thought that Sam was going to keep talking, but all the sudden he takes one big step forward, grabs Harry’s shoulders, and slams him against the wall behind him. A yelp escapes Harry, and Sam spits in his face. 

“Fucking worthless,” he seethes, and then he grabs a fisftul of Harry’s hair -- and Harry tries to fight back, he does -- and slams Harry’s face down right into the table. His forehead gets the worst of it, and as he falls to the ground, everything is too much. He can’t process the blood dripping down his head or the kick to his ribs that sends him completely down on his stomach or the groan that pushes its way out of his throat. His brain is whirling, and he can’t stay on a single thought for too long until he hears Sam undoing his belt. Then, suddenly he can think extremely clearly. 

He tries to leap to his feet. He tries a lot of things. But Sam is too fast and too strong and too relentless. All Harry’s wearing is a shirt and a pair of boxers, so there isn’t much time. He tries to fight. He tries to scream. He tries to make his nails hurt as he drags them across Sam’s arms. The only way to stop this if he prevents it from starting, because the second Sam forces himself inside of him, he will be incapcitated by the pain. So he tries. He tries really hard, puts up the biggest fight he probably ever has before. By now, he’s bent over the kitchen table. When he gets his arm free long enough to elbow Sam, hard, Sam responds by slamming his head against the kitchen table again. 

A moment after that, just as Harry starts to fight through the fuzziness in his head and the ringing, it’s too late. 

-

Sam leaves for work twenty minutes later. He leaves Harry laying there, trembling on the kitchen floor. Before he leaves, he dumps the coffee over Harry, and thank fucking God it’s cooled off by now. He tells Harry that if he leaves, he’ll regret it. 

“Our neighbor will tell me if you go anywhere,” he says when he’s crouched down next to Harry. There’s no remorse in his voice. Harry doesn’t know why he still expects there to be some regret after things like this happen. “Ms. Kathy? I told her that you have a terrible case of schizophrenia. She’ll tell me if you left, and then I’ll come get you. Wherever you go, I’ll find you. I know where you used to live, so I don’t think going back there would be very smart. Unless you want to make it easy on me, of course. And if you leave, Harry, I swear to God, I will do things to you that you can’t even imagine.”

He leaves after leaving a kiss on Harry’s bare shoulder and laughing. And then Harry just lays there. For a long time. He just lays there. No tears, no emotions, nothing. He just lays there. After about an hour, he forces himself to sit up. He ignores the pain as he slips his t-shirt and slides his boxers back on. Like this, he feels a bit better. Barely, but some. And then he leans against the kitchen counter for forty-five minutes, head carefully blank. 

He smells like coffee. His skin is sticky. His thighs are shaking uncontrollably. 

Once his brain starts to feel like it is working again, he forces himself to stand. The pain is nauseating, the wound on his head and his arse throbbing painfully, and he hobbles to the bathroom. He should clean up. He has to clean up the kitchen, too. Maybe if he cleans up a bit, Sam will be less mad at him. 

He doesn’t even consider leaving until he looks in the mirror, at the blood all over his face. There’s a huge gash on the left side of his forehead from where he hit his head the first time, and the blood has streaked his entire face. He thought the blood he tasted was from his bitten lip. He thought the wetness he felt on his face was tears. 

Chest heaving, he quickly grabs a washcloth and vigorously wipes his face clean. He goes gentle around the wound, but everywhere else, he works roughly. Once his face is clean, he thinks he should do the laundry. His shirt and boxers are stained, and now so is the washcloth. He walks to the laundry room, and as soon as he gets the water started, he stops and asks himself what the fuck he is doing. Why the fuck should he stay? What is even the point anymore?

He shuts the water off, grabs his phone, and sits on the couch. For twenty-nine minutes, he sits perfectly still on the couch, angeled in a way that hurts less. It’s difficult to explain what goes through his head, besides everything and nothing all at once, but it ends with him slowly opening his phone, going to his contacts, and clicking Louis’ name. He presses call and holds the phone up to his ear. 

Louis answers on the fourth ring. “Hey, H. Me and Niall were literally just about to text you. The two of us are going to one of Zayn’s friends to smoke a bit. Do you want to come?”

“Louis.” His voice is wrecked and empty at the same time. “I need you to come get me.”

He’s not scared. He’s not anything. 

“Are you in danger? Is he there right now? What’s going on, H?”

“No. He’s at work. I just need you to come get me.”

Louis lets out a shaky breath. “Okay. Okay, I will. I’ll be right there. Are you -- do you want to leave? Are you coming back home?”

He doesn’t know. Truly, he doesn’t know. Not because he’s conflicted between saying and leaving, but because he has absolutely no idea how to think right now. To avoid explaining that, he says, “Yes.”

“Okay. Okay. I’ll be right there. I’m coming, I’m in the car now. Pack your stuff, okay? Niall’s coming, too, so we can get your stuff out quicker. I’ll be there in ten minutes, okay?”

“Okay.” Harry sounds terrifying, even to himself. “Okay. Thanks. Bye.”

He hangs up, sets his phone on the table, and does not move a muscle until Louis comes, knocking frantically at the door. Harry thinks of Ms. Kathy. He wonders if she’ll actually call Sam. Sam’s work is thirty-five minutes away, though. It wouldn’t even matter. Nothing fucking matters. 

“Harry,” Louis calls, still knocking. “Harry, can you open the door? Are you hurt?”

He waits a handful of seconds before forcing himself to stand and answer the door. Once he does, Niall and Louis let out a relieved sound. And then Louis is reaching forward to see the cut better, but Harry tilts his face away. 

“Did you pack?” Louis asks, coming inside. Niall follows, too, looking completely nervous. “How much stuff do you have left to grab?”

Talking takes so, so much effort. 

“I didn’t pack anything yet.”

“Let’s start with what you absolutely need first,” Niall says. Both he and Louis start to move, but Harry stays where he’s standing. Once he realizes Harry doesn’t move, Niall frowns. “Come on, H. I don’t know what’s yours.”

Harry means to respond. He means to do something other than rub his fingers over the uninjured side of his forehead. His mind and body aren’t working together as one right now, though. 

“Go get his clothes,” Louis says. “You’ll be able to tell the difference between him and Sam’s.” Niall hesitates, but goes once Louis motions for him to leave. Once Niall’s in the bedroom, Louis comes forward and gently, so gently, steers Harry back to the couch. He sits him down, goes and gets him a glass of water, sets it in front of him, kisses his forehead, and then goes into the back room. 

There’s still blood on his shirt. His boxers, too, which they’ll probably just assume is from his head wound. He glances over at the kitchen, and there are obvious signs of a struggle. One of the chairs is knocked over, the rest of them looking disturbed. The mail that was on the table is on the ground now. And the blood. There’s a lot of blood. Some smeared on the wall, and on the table, and on the floor. Harry walked around the apartment bleeding; there’s probably more around the flat, too. 

After ten minutes, Harry realizes he should probably get up. If he wants to make sure the stuff that’s important to him comes with, he should get up. He takes a few sips of water, hand shaking, before standing up and heading to the bedroom. Louis and Niall shoot him a worried look as Harry grabs a gym bag -- it’s the same one he used last time, he realizes numbly -- and heads to the bathroom. He packs whatever is his before going to the living room and grabbing his things from there, too. When he comes back to the bedroom, it looks like they have most of his clothes and shoes packed, so Harry grabs the small things left over. He changes into fresh clothes, too, and shoves the bloodied ones into the trash. 

At the end of it, they have three bags full and a suitcase. 

“Let’s go, okay?” Louis says softly. Harry nods, still feeling entirely detached from the world. The three of them make it to the door before Harry feels his fingers and his heart nearly stops. 

“Wait,” he says, dropping the bag. He moves quicker to the bedroom than he’s moved in a few hours. It takes him a few seconds to find the ring since Niall and Louis moved everything around, but once he does, he slides it over his middle finger. It makes him feel a little better but so much worse. He heads back to the door, grabs the bag and his phone off the couch, and then they leave. 

He’s not scared. He’s not proud of himself. Still, he doesn’t feel anything. And he knows it’s only a matter of time for that to change. That, very soon, terror, regret, shame and doubt will take turns sinking its claws into his brain. He wonders how long it will take for him to want to go back to Sam this time. It feels like an endless cycle, one he can’t get out of no matter how many lines Sam slashes through. 

In the car, there’s barely any conversation. Niall asks if they should take him to the hospital, and Harry says no, that he’s fine. 

“You might have a concussion,” Louis says hesitantly, like he knows Harry’s not going to want to hear it. 

Harry shakes his head. “I don’t care. I’m not going.”

“We’ll just have to keep an eye on you, then,” Niall says. 

When they get home, Harry doesn’t feel any better. If anything, he feels worse. He’s nauseous and his stomach hurts -- everything hurts, really. His legs and his hips and his bum and his head, God. His cheek, too. There’s marks on his wrists where Sam dug his nails into him to keep him still, and they’re bright red and purple, almost.

Niall unclips his seatbelt and gets out of the car, grabbing two of the bags. Louis unclicks his seatbelt, too, and he’s about to open the door when he looks at Harry. 

“We can sit,” he says. “For a while. In here. If you want.”

Harry would rather a bed, to be honest, but he still finds himself nodding and getting more comfortable in the chair. An impossible mission right now. He rests his head on the window and exhales shakily. 

Louis doesn’t ask him to talk. Harry’s thankful. He does, however, reach over to unbuckle the seatbelt for Harry, murmuring something about that not being comfortable. And then they sit. For about twenty minutes, they just sit. 

Sam’s going to get off work in four hours and thirteen minutes. Every time his brain reminds him of that, it’s either followed by a _I don’t fucking care_ , or _he’s going to mad I left the place a mess,_ or _maybe I can go back before he notices I left._

After the twenty minute mark, Louis looks to him again. “We can stay here as long as you’d like, H, but I need to know you’re okay. I mean, not _okay_ , obviously, but. You know what I mean.”

“Fine,” Harry says, and he’s nodding, and it doesn’t feel like a lie but all the sudden he’s crying. Hot tears pour down his cheeks, and a sob hiccups out of him. He covers his face with his hand, feeling stupid. 

“I’m so sorry, love.”

Harry shakes his head, a shuddering breath forcing itself from his lungs. “Can we just go inside,” and holy fuck, that’s not his voice. He sounds so fucking -- fucking broken, really. 

“Yeah, not a problem.”

Louis gets his hand around the handle and goes to push it open, but suddenly, Harry can’t take hiding it anymore. He can’t let this secret, if you can even call it that, follow him back into the flat. It needs to die, right here, right now, in this car, with Louis. Harry can’t take being the one in the entire world knowing what actually happened. Sam knows, but he doesn’t really _know_ , does he. 

“Wait,” he breathes out, flinging his arms out to grab Louis’ wrists. As soon as Louis glances at him, he loosens his grip. He’s not really holding him at all, just resting his hands on top of his skin. Harry licks his lips, feeling feral as he tries to convince himself to say it. “Louis,” he says, tone serious. “Sam -- hurt me. He hurt me.”

Louis frowns, pity morphing his features. “I know. I’m sorry.”

“No, not -- no. He _hurt_ me.”

Louis doesn’t look like he understands. Harry needs _someone_ to _understand_. 

A small, sad noise escapes him and he hides his face against his bicep. The angle he’s in -- hunched over the console, arms outstretched, weight distributed evenly -- hurts everything. “Sam hurt me,” he says again, moving his face away from his arm just enough that his words aren’t muffled. He couldn’t take saying it twice. “Sam -- he. Louis. Sam -- I think he,” he pauses, takes a deep breath, and then gets out, “Louis, I think Sam raped me.”

It hurts. He regrets saying it. Regrets it almost immediately. There’s nothing brave in how he says it, and he didn’t want to tell anyone for a reason. For _that_ reason -- because of that way Louis tenses and sucks in a sharp breath and doesn’t say anything at all. Because what do you say to that? There’s nothing to say. 

Pathetically, Harry sobs and hunches over the console further, trying and somewhat failing to hide his face against Louis’ torso. It’s such an awkward angle and everything is burning, inside and out, and Louis has to pull his wrists away from Harry’s hands so he can try to comfort him. He hunches down, too, his nose against Harry’s hair, one arm around his shoulders, the other shielding his head, almost. 

“I’m so sorry, Harry,” Louis whispers. Judging by his voice, he’s definitely crying. “I’m so -- fuck, love, I’m so sorry. You don’t deserve any of this, okay? You don’t -- I don’t want you blaming yourself, you hear me? You didn’t ask for any of this.”

“I went _back_.”

He’s nearly choking on his sobs now, so talking probably isn’t the best idea, but silence seems even more terrifying. 

“You went back asking to be loved, not -- not that. Don’t you dare blame yourself.

After a few more minutes of useless crying from Harry, Louis begins to rub his hand side to side over Harry’s back. “I know this is probably the last thing you want to hear right now,” he says, “but if you want to pursue any sort of legal action, I think it’s in your best interest to let me take you to the police station now. So, like. . . evidence and stuff, you know?”

His body isn’t a goddamn crime scene. Except for the fact that it is. 

“No,” he whimpers out, shaking his head against Louis. “I don’t want to.”

Louis shifts beneath him. “And that’s okay if that’s what you really want, but I need you to really think about this, okay? Think it through. Don’t worry about Sam, think about yourself. What do _you_ need?”

Harry twists his fingers into the fabric of Louis’ shirt, sniffling incessantly. “I don’t want to. I can’t. I would -- Louis. I’d rather fucking die than have someone not believe me. I can’t take that.”

“Okay,” Louis whispers, soothing. “Okay. That’s perfectly fine. I understand.”

Once Harry pulls himself together a little bit -- and a quick glance at the clock tells him that it’s been over ten minutes of him just crying -- he sits up, and immediately feels terrible all over again.

“Your shirt,” he croaks out, staring at the blood. He reaches up to touch the cut on his forehead, but Louis gently intercepts his wrist. 

“Don’t touch it. I’ll have to clean it for you. We don’t want it to get infected.” He gives him a crooked smile when he adds, “And don’t worry about my shirt.”

When they get inside (and Harry never should have left here, he knows that, but it’s painfully apparent right now) Niall is leaning against the kitchen counter, chewing on his thumb nail and tapping his foot. When he sees them, he doesn’t look any less nervous. 

“Made you something to eat, Haz,” Niall says, motioning to a bowl of oatmeal on the counter. “You’re probably not hungry, but you should try and eat something.”

“Thanks.”

It’s hard to look at Niall. It feels like his secret is written all over his skin, and now Louis’, too. He doesn’t want anyone knowing. Nobody. Not even Louis. But it wasn’t about needing to tell Louis, it was about needing to tell _someone_ , and Louis was there. 

“Are you going to shower?” Louis asks, and the question has a double meaning. _Are you sure you want to go and rinse of all the evidence?_

Harry nods firmly. 

The shower he takes is quick. He closes his eyes, ignores the pain the best he can, and scrubs everywhere until he randomly reaches forward to shut off the shower. There was no conscious effort behind it, he just did it, and now he’s standing in the shower soaking wet and naked. Which, yeah. That’s how these sorts of things work. His head is just so scrambled right now. He gets dressed quickly before shoving his dirty clothes in the bathroom trash and making his way to the bedroom. There’s some hushed whispers coming from the living room that he pointedly ignores. 

His bed is stripped bare. There’s two pillows still, but no pillowcases, sheets or blankets. It doesn’t deter him from laying down, careful not to press the wounded side of his forehead to the pillow. He shuts his eyes for all of maybe three seconds when Louis comes in. 

“Oh, shit. Yeah. I was cleaning in here earlier and washed the bedding. I’ll get it out of the dryer for you.”

“Okay.” His voice sounds scratchy and quiet, and still unfamiliar. 

“And I’m going to make you let me clean that cut.”

“Okay.”

“Okay,” Louis echoes. “I’ll be right back.”

When Louis does return, he comes with the pillowcases and blanket first. Delicately, he covers Harry and sets the pillowcases to the side, probably correctly assuming Harry’s not going to lift up long enough for him to put them on. He leaves again, this time coming back with that oatmeal, a glass of water, and a small first aid kid that just screams Liam. 

“Sit up for me, please. If you can.”

And Harry very much doesn’t want to, but he _can_. To prove that to Louis, he sits up halfway, more propped up on the pillows than anything else. 

Harry stays silently fumbling with Sam’s ring as Louis cleans the cut on his forehead. It hurts, but so does everyone else. After Louis mumbles to him that he might need stitches (which Harry ignores) and puts a band-aid over the cut, he squeezes Harry’s shoulder briefly before handing him the bowl of food. 

“Eat just a little,” he says. “Please. And then you can sleep.”

“Okay.”

“Hey,” Louis whispers, voice soft and warm. He’s always so kind. They all are. And Harry chose Sam over them. That makes tears leap to his eyes again, and he doesn’t think he’s actually going to cry until a broken sound surprises them both. Louis looks incredibly worried about him, and Harry can’t blame him at all. “Liam’s at work. We haven’t texted him yet, but if you want -- ”

“No,” Harry says immediately, wiping his cheeks. And _ow_ , his right one hurts. It’s probably from the second time his head met the table. “No. Liam’s -- ” he cuts himself off and shakes his head. Louis understands anyway. 

“Liam isn’t going to be mad. Or think anything negatively about you. He’s just going to be glad you’re here.”

Harry’s bottom lip quivers and he strengthens his hold on the bowl so his hands don’t shake. “ _I’m_ mad at _myself_. He’s going to be mad, too.”

“No, love. No. I promise you.” Louis sighs quietly and sits on the bed, farther away from Harry then he normally would. “And you shouldn’t blame yourself. I know I already said that, but -- ”

“I started it,” Harry interrupts. “I yelled at him first. I -- God, Louis, I felt like I was losing my _mind,_ and I just yelled at him. I couldn’t take it anymore, I couldn’t. But I still started it.”

Louis shakes his head, expression stern. “I don’t care what you said. You could’ve called him the worst things imaginable, and that would not warrant him hitting you. Or hurting you in any other way.”

“I should’ve known better. I -- I knew I was being reckless, and -- ”

“Mate, I can’t take hearing you say this,” Louis whispers. “ _This is not your fault._ Any of it. Give yourself a break, please. You’ve been under so much stress non-stop for literally _years_. If anyone has a right to lash out, it’s you. And guess what? If you absolutely blew up on me one day, I wouldn’t hit you. I wouldn’t even yell at you. Because I care about you and have at least half a brain cell to see that you’re hurting.”

It’s too much to process, so Harry swallows thickly and says, “He said he’d come here. If I left. He says he knows where we live and he’d come get me.”

“Then we’ll figure out a schedule where you’re not home by yourself,” Louis says, like it’s the easiest thing in the world. “You have three men here who would be more than willing to defend you. And you don’t have to talk to him. Ever again. If he comes here, just go to the bathroom, lock the door, and take your phone just in case. You won’t even have to see him.”

This is insane. Harry’s a grown adult who got himself into this mess. It’s wrong, isn’t it, accepting their help like this? What has he ever done to show he deserves it?

“He knows where I work,” he says, even though Louis’ helped him enough. He just has no idea what to do.

“Quit. Get a different job. I’ll see if there’s anything you can do with me at the school, and if not, we’ll figure something else out.” He smiles kindly at him. “Any worry you have, mate, we’ll find a solution for it. I don’t care what it is, we’ll figure it out. Nothing’s impossible.” He hesitates for a moment before saying, “And H? I think this is too much for you to handle on your own. Maybe. . . maybe seeing a therapist is something you should look into. And that’s -- that doesn’t make you crazy. I know Sam’s talked you out of the idea, so forget everything he said and listen to me. You need help with this, I think, and they can help you.”

Harry doesn’t respond right away, struggling to come up with a response to that, and Louis waves his hand. 

“Forget about it for now. Just something to think about. I’ll leave you alone, if you want?”

Immediately, Harry’s heart leaps at the idea. No. He doesn’t want to be alone. He absolutely doesn’t want to be alone. “No. Stay. Please. And could you get me my phone?”

“Of course.”

While Louis grabs his phone, Harry takes a few hurried spoonfuls of oatmeal just to say that he ate some like they both asked him to and sets it on the bedside table. He carefully gets comfortable in the bed again, intentionally leaving a spot for Louis, but when he returns with his phone, he goes to sit on his own bed. 

“Could you lay with me?” Harry asks quietly, staring at the wall. 

“Are you sure? After what happened, I don’t . . . I don’t want to upset you.”

Harry pulls the blankets over his shoulders, the warmth soothing some of his aches. “It’s not any different than it was before.”

“It is, though, H. He -- it’s different.”

“It’s not,” Harry says, glancing at him. 

Louis looks confused until he doesn’t anymore, and then he looks a mix of disgusted and angered. “He -- that wasn’t the first time? Today, that wasn’t -- ?”

Harry swallows around a lump in his throat and looks back to the wall, tears eager to flood his eyes yet again. “Lost track by now, to be honest. It’s. . . It’s fine.”

Louis scoffs. 

“Not fine,” Harry amends. “It’s just. It is what it is, right? Isn’t that what your tattoo says?”

“My tattoo applies to things, like, I don’t know, getting bad tattoos. Not things like that. But I’m not -- if you’re comfortable with me being around you, I’m comfortable with it, too.”

Harry nods wordlessly, and Louis stands and comes over to him, sliding into bed next to him. They don't cuddle, which is fine. Honestly, it’s probably best that Louis doesn’t touch him much. Everything hurts. 

“Just go to sleep, H,” Louis whispers, patting his shoulder through the blanket. His hand rests there for a moment. “And when you wake up, Liam will be home. He’ll be happy to see you. He misses you, you know. And we’ll get take-out and watch some TV. And the rest of your today is going to be a lot better, you hear me?”

“I hope so.”

“I know so,” Louis corrects. “Just sleep. It might make you feel a little better.”

Harry closes his eyes. He’s tired, but he doesn’t think he’s tired enough to fall asleep right away. It must be the stress that pulls him under so quickly. 

-

Louis was right: when Harry wakes, Liam’s home. His voice spilling in from the living room is the second thing Harry hears, after the ringing in his ears. He curses quietly, shoving his face against the pillow. When that doesn’t help, he opens his eyes, and the light from the window is far too bright and his head is pounding. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that, from those three things combined, his head was hit a little too hard. He ignores it for now, since that’s all he can really do. Louis’ asleep next to him, looking a little uncomfortably sprawled out next to him in a clear attempt to stay on that side of the bed. To avoid waking him up, Harry lays back down and goes on his phone. 

Sam’s not home yet, but there are two texts from him. _What do you want for dinner_ is the first, and then, _Work is so slow today, bored as shit x._ It’s. . . revolting, that’s what it is. That Sam can talk to him so casually as if he didn’t do what he did this morning. Either he’s trying to convince Harry that what happened wasn’t a big deal and they could go on like normal, or he sincerely just doesn’t care about him at all. And Harry supposes it makes sense, Sam going on about his day like normal. That’s what Harry used to do, too. 

Looking at his phone hurts his eyes, so he sets it back down. He’s starving, and the bowl of oatmeal is still on the table, so he grabs it and eats it. It’s disgusting cold, but it’s still edible and there’s no way Harry is coming out of the room until Louis wakes up. He didn’t mean to adopt Louis as today’s shield, but that’s what has happened. He can’t face Niall and Liam alone. 

And Zayn, Harry realizes once he hears him say something. This is some sort of occasion, then. Word has got around. Harry didn’t explicitly tell Louis not to tell the others the full story of what happened, but he’s almost certain Louis wouldn’t do that to him so he doesn’t worry about it. 

When he hears Niall laugh at something, it makes him sad. It makes him think of the night before Harry left for Sam’s again. He was happy then, so happy. He should have stayed. Looking back at it now is like looking back at the last time you spoke to someone before they died. 

Harry just sits in bed until Louis wakes up. When he does, he looks a little startled before he seemingly processes what happened early. “Oh,” he mumbles groggily, resting his head back down on the pillow. He makes a sleepy noise. “That oatmeal was probably disgusting.”

“Wasn’t too bad.”

“Liar.”

He’s smiling tiredly, so Harry gives him a tired smile back. 

Louis lays there half-asleep for a few more minutes until he sits up and stretches. He wipes at his face before saying, “I can go out there first, if you want. I mean, there’s nothing to be nervous about, but if you are, it’s okay.”

He doesn’t know how Louis can tell that he’s worried about it, but he’s thankful for it. 

“And don’t feel pressured to stay out there if you don’t want to,” Louis continues. “Literally everyone will understand if you want some space.”

Harry nods. “Thank you, Louis. For, like. Everything.”

“Thank you for trusting us enough to ask for help,” Louis replies, just as sincerely. It’s confusing. There’s nothing admirable about calling someone to fix your problems for you. Just. He doesn’t get it, but he nods once anyway. And then Louis is rolling out of bed and making his way to the door. Before he leaves, he turns back to Harry, looking serious. 

“Hey,” he says quietly, leaning against the bed. “I, um. I didn’t make you uncomfortable before, did I? I mean, when we kissed. Either time.”

Harry can feel his cheeks burn, and he doesn’t know if it’s from shame or embarrassment. “No,” he says. “I kissed you first, anyway.”

“Right, but I didn’t know. . . I didn’t know it was more complicated. I would’ve -- I don’t know. Done things differently if I had known.”

Harry frowns. “Should I have told you beforehand?” He doesn’t know. Maybe Louis was entitled to that information since they were engaging in sexual acts. 

“Absolutely not,” Louis says immediately, shaking his head. “Not what I’m saying. Don’t tell anyone anything you don’t want to. Just, I wanted to make sure that was all okay.”

“It was.”

“Okay, cool. I’ll go tell them you’re awake.”

He leaves, leaving the door cracked behind him. Harry waits until he feels safe enough to leave the room, which takes about fifteen minutes. When he emerges from the room, he goes straight to the bathroom. After he’s taken a piss and is washing his hands, he looks at himself in the mirror, and he looks loads worse than he did earlier. He looks more tired, more pale. The cut’s bruise has expanded beyond the band-aid, and there’s a small bruise on his left cheekbone and a massive one on the right one, spilling up towards his temple. He looks terrible, and when he reaches to gently prod the bruises, he notices that some of the nail marks on his wrists have bruised, too. He’s just a wreck. If his face looks like this, who knows what his thighs and bum and hips look like. He doesn’t want to see. 

Briefly, Harry considers that Sam’s goal was for Harry to flee. The beating this morning wasn’t better than most or anything like that, but it was -- usually he doesn’t make so many prominent marks on his face. And then Harry realizes he was probably just testing his loyalty. Harry fucking failed that test, didn’t he. 

He feels awkward and out of place when he walks down the hallway and into the living room/kitchen area. They all look at him, all of them, and they don’t stop until Louis shoots daggers at them with his eyes. 

Zayn’s the one to say, “I brought take-out. Chinese food. It’s on the counter, take whatever you want.”

Harry nods and heads to the kitchen to make himself a plate. He’s actually hungry, so this is good. While his food is heating up in the microwave, he goes into the junk cabinet to grab some ibuprofen. He takes three, hoping it’ll aid to the faint ringing in his ears and everything else. It’s when he’s taking his food out of the microwave that Liam comes into the kitchen, coming straight towards him. 

Wordlessly, he opens his arms up for a hug. Harry sets his food down and hugs him, resting his chin on his shoulder. Liam squeezes him tightly. “I’m not going to ask, okay? I’m not going to make you talk about it. I’m here, but if you don’t want to tell me anything, that’s okay.” He pauses and lets out a sad laugh. “I think that’s what Niall and Lou told me to say, anyway.”

“Thank you. I’m okay.”

“Are you?” Liam asks, pulling away from him slightly to look him in the face. “Like, physically. Are you sure?”

Harry bites down on his bottom lip before deciding to be honest. “I think I might have a concussion. My ears are ringing a bit, like. But it’s fine. I’ll see someone if it doesn’t go away. Besides that, I’m fine.”

“Okay,” Liam says, nodding. He nods a little too much, so Harry isn’t surprised that there’s more he wants to say. Reluctant, he says, “You can’t go back to him. I’m -- I’m sorry, but I have to say it.”

Harry subconsciously twists the ring. “I know.”

Liam nods before smiling stiffly and going back to the living room. Not wanting to talk but not wanting to be alone, either, Harry sits at the kitchen table to eat. He can see them, they can see him, but the clues are there that he doesn’t want to speak right now. They respect his wishes without question.

Harry sits there for an hour, not really doing anything. He’s actually somewhat relaxed, so of course that’s when Sam calls him for the first time. Harry’s heart absolutely plummets, but yeah, the time’s right. He’s probably just gotten home from work. 

Harry holds it together for three calls, three voice messages, and five texts. _You have got to be kidding me_ ; _Are we really doing this again_ ; _I told you I’d come get you_ ; _Why can’t you just fucking listen for once_ ; and _I think you underestimate how far I can go H._ After that last text, Harry makes the rational decision to turn off his phone, stand up, and put it in the cup cabinet. Out of sight, out of mind. Or something like that. Besides, the only people who he needs to talk to right now are in this room with him. He couldn’t face either his sister or his mum right now, so those four boys sitting out in the living, staring at him and trying not to be obvious about it, are the only people that matter right now. 

-

That night, he can’t sleep. At all. Partly because he’s not that tired, and partly because there’s this feeling of uncleanliness that won’t leave him. He feels dirty. His skin and underneath his nails and inside, too. Everything just feels unclean and _wrong_. So wrong.

At three-thirteen in the morning, he can’t take the feeling anymore. As quietly as he can, he gets out of bed, grabs a new change of clothes, and heads to the bathroom. The shower he takes is nearly twenty minutes long, and he keeps scrubbing and scrubbing his skin but nothing makes it feel clean. Nothing. By the end of it, he’s crying, his chest is heaving and his skin is bright red. It’s no use, he realizes. Nothing is going to make him feel clean, not when he feels so soiled on the inside. 

Once he gets out of the shower, he gets dressed, slides the ring back on over his finger, and goes to the living room. He’s still not tired, and he doesn’t want to wake Louis up if he hasn’t already. As quietly as he can, he heats up some leftovers. He eats on the couch this time, and once he’s done, there doesn’t seem to be anything left he can do besides grabbing his phone from the cupboard. It’s still there, nobody moved it, and Harry stares at its blank screen for several minutes until he finally turns it on. As it loads, he closes his eyes, counts to two-hundred, and then looks at the screen. 

211 texts. 59 calls. 24 voicemails. And somehow, Harry manages to be surprised that there isn’t more. 

Mindful of how much listening to the voicemails scared him last time, he avoids those and clicks to the texts. They aren’t any better, they’re still awful, but it’s easier to digest. Kind of. All this stuff, Sam has said to him at one point or another. That doesn’t make it any easier to see, though. 

He’s lived through this exact night before, except now he’s twenty-five and Sam knows for sure where he is staying. He has no idea how he’s ever going to feel safe leaving the flat. 

Sometime throughout the night, he ends up falling asleep on the couch, phone clutched tightly in his hand. When he wakes, it’s three hours later to Liam covering him with a blanket. 

“Oh,” Liam says softly. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to wake you.”

Harry curls up under the covers, pulling them closer to his neck. “‘S okay.”

“You should head to bed, mate. Might be more comfortable.”

“I’m okay here.”

“Okay,” Liam says, nodding. “Are your ears still ringing?”

Harry lets his eyes close, the new warmth of the blanket pulling him closer to sleep. “A bit. It’s fine.”

“Okay. Make sure to look after yourself, though, alright?”

Harry hums as a response. For the next however long, he’s in and out of sleep, listening to Liam get ready for work. Before he leaves, he presses a kiss to his forehand before taking the phone out of his hands and setting in on the coffee table. Harry pretends to already be asleep, mostly because he wants to be. 

-

For the next week, Harry feels completely lost. Not only in the sense that he doesn’t feel like he knows his place in the world, but within himself, too. Everything going on in his head is so confusing and difficult to deal with, and it leaves him feeling spacey and exhausted almost all the time. It feels different than the last time he left. Scarier. 

He feels that sentiment on more than one level. 

It’s -- nothing that happened a week ago was new. He had been beaten like that before, and he had been assaulted even more brutal than that more than a few times. It has no right to hurt so badly this time around. The blame and embarrassment and shame are all-consuming, constantly. And it’s not fair that he feels so ashamed of what happened; he didn’t do anything to deserve being raped. Nothing. The only person who should feel the shame from that is Sam, but Harry is beyond disgusting with himself and his body anyway. It doesn’t make any sense. 

He’s been having nightmares. Not just bad dreams that leave a bad taste in his mouth when he wakes, but full-blown nightmares where he wakes up gasping and panicked and shaking. Crying, too, most of the time. It’s infuriating. It’s inconvenient. He always, always feels guilty when he wakes Louis with the ruckus, but simultaneously feels better when Louis comes into his bed if he isn’t already and pets his sweaty hair until he falls back asleep. 

Most likely because Louis’ the only one who knows how far Sam went, Harry trusts him. A lot. With everything. He always has, but now it’s paired up with feeling distrusting, almost, of Liam and Niall. Liam especially. It’s not -- Liam’s his best mate, and he adores him. But Liam was also the one most vocal about him not wanting Harry to go back to Sam. Any minute now, it feels like Liam’s going to shout _I told you so,_ and Harry doesn’t want to tell him anything that might make him inclined to do that. 

Harry quits his job three days after everything happened through a text. The idea of ever going back is a daunting one, and he didn’t want to have to deal with the guilt of calling in at the last minute for every single one of his shifts in the foreseeable future, so he quits. It was something he had to do, yet it still feels like he let Sam win yet again. And now he spends every day in the flat with nothing to distract himself with. Whoever stays with him that day -- because Louis really did work that out for him; if Liam, Niall or Louis can’t stay home, Zayn comes over because he doesn’t have a traditional job and works from home so it’s no big deal -- offers some support and distraction, but not a lot. 

This time, it takes him twenty hours to block Sam’s number. He couldn’t take it anymore, watching the messages and missed calls flood his phone. It made him so nauseous watching it happen that he nearly puked, so he blocked his number and deleted every text, missed call and voice message off his phone. It helped a ton, and somehow, he still feels terrible. 

It’s just. . . every time he was beaten or assaulted, guilt and blame always followed. Always, even when he knew deep down he had done nothing wrong. But a week ago, he was practically asking for it, wasn’t he? He pushed Sam as hard as he could, and Sam pushed him right back. What did he expect to happen? Yes, he has the excuse that he genuinely felt out of his mind with anger and lost all self-control, but that excuse only covers for so much. In his head, he might as well begged Sam to rape him again. That’s what he was basically doing, starting a fight like that. 

When he told Louis that one night, shaking in the aftermath of a nightmare, Louis shook his head sternly and told him that’s not true. “If someone hurt any one of us like that, you’d see clear as day that we didn't deserve it, no matter what.”

“But I _yelled_ at him.”

Louis sighed. 

He’s pretty sure that part of the reason it hurts this time around is because he had high hopes for them. And, at that point in time, he felt mostly safe with Sam. He knew Sam would hit him again, he knew that. He also knew that Sam would probably end up raping him again, too. But he thought things would have escalated to that slower. He thought he had some time to just be happy. And he was so, so wrong. 

Today, the eighth morning after he left, he works himself into this -- fit. That’s the only word he has to describe it. He and Louis are both in the room, in their own beds, doing their own thing. Harry’s on the laptop, watching a TV show, when he starts to go through step-by-step of what happened that morning. He’s just thinking about it, about what exactly happened and trying to fill in small gaps of his memory, like he has done countless times before. But today, for some reason, it pushes on something in his head that shouldn’t have been pushed. 

One second, he’s lying in bed, remembering how Sam slammed the door and Harry followed him out anyway. And then, some place while he’s thinking about how Sam insinuated that his friends were in on it in April, too, he stops thinking about it and starts feeling like he’s really, truly there again, and it’s terrifying. He opens his eyes that he doesn’t remember shutting, trying to block out the feeling and image of Sam forcing himself inside of him, but it won’t leave, it won’t let him be. Hurriedly, he sits up and tosses the covers off him, feeling suffocated. His hands come up to tug at his hair in a desperate attempt to ground himself, and he’s so disoriented that he doesn’t hear or see Louis coming towards him. He just feels hands on him suddenly, and he immediately jerks away from the touch, thinking _Sam Sam Sam_ until Louis’ voice gets through his thoughts. 

“Hey, hey,” he keeps saying. “Hey, what is it? You’re okay. You’re safe. Harry, what’s -- hey, you’re okay, mate.”

Harry opens his mouth to try and talk, but a loud sob takes the place of words. He hunches forward, falling into bed again, and cries so hard that it hurts. Louis follows his movements, rubbing his back and whispering into his ear and telling him over and over that he’s okay. He must be making a lot of noise, because suddenly Liam is there trying to help, too, and it’s so overwhelming and embarrassing and Harry still swears he can feel the searing pain of when Sam penetrated him, he can actually _feel_ it, and it _hurts_ , even though he knows, logistically, nothing is happening right now. 

“What happened?” Liam asks worriedly, stroking his fingers across the back of Harry’s neck. 

“I don’t know. He just started freaking out.”

“Well, how do we fix it?”

Louis squeezes his biceps gently. “I don’t know.”

There’s not really a fix, Harry just gradually calms the fuck down and shuts the fuck up. Once he finally stops crying, he lets out a laboured breath against his forearm, trying to focus on nothing but Liam and Louis’ hands -- their soft, gentle, caring hands. His own are shaking, so he wraps his fingers around the duvet to make them stop. 

The first thing he says when he manages to form words is, “I’m sorry. I don’t -- I’m sorry.”

Someone drops a kiss to his back, he’s not sure who it is. 

“Nothing to be sorry for,” Liam says, still petting the hairs at the back of his neck. 

But he does have something to be sorry for, doesn’t he. Freaking out at ten in the morning over nothing is objectively irritating behavior. And God, is he embarrassed. So embarrassed. To try and convince everyone he’s fine, he sits up and deals with the head rush that gives him. (The ringing in his ears has mostly subsided, so he hasn’t let himself worry about the somewhat frequent headaches still lingering.) Louis and Liam’s hands, again, follow him, one on his shoulder, one on his knee. 

“I don’t know what that was,” he mumbles, pulling his knees to his chest. Louis readjusts his hand so it’s on his ankle. “Just -- I’m fine. Thanks for trying to calm me down.”

It takes them about twenty minutes to leave him be, and even after that, Louis shoots him worried looks across the room for the rest of the day. 

-

Sam follows through with his threat on the start of the second week of him being gone.

Harry’s sound asleep, and then suddenly he isn’t. Suddenly, he’s lurching forward in bed, heart racing and blood rushing in his ears as he tries to figure out what’s wrong. And then Louis’ hushing him, stroking his arms. He’s sat next to him in bed. Before Harry can ask what’s going on, he hears it for himself. 

“He’s my fucking boyfriend,” he hears Sam -- Sam Sam Sam, fucking shit -- snap. “If I want to see him, I should be able to see him.”

“ _Ex_ -boyfriend,” Niall snaps back. 

A terrified whimper tumbles out of him, and Louis shushes him again, tugging him to his chest. Harry scrambles to fit himself against Louis’ side; Louis will protect him. If Harry can’t protect himself, he’s not alone in trying. Not this time. 

“Our door is locked,” Louis whispers to him, “and Liam and Niall are out there right now. He’s not coming in here, you’re fine.”

“Why is he _here_?”

Louis cups the back of his head protectively. “I don’t know.”

Harry clenches his eyes shut and tries to take deep breaths as he listens to the three of them argue. 

“I should call the fucking police on you,” Liam nearly shouts. “Leave. Right the fuck now.”

“They should just shut the door on him,” Harry whispers, voice only a little shaky. 

Louis sighs. “They did. He just keeps knocking.”

Sam’s never going to let Harry go. Ever. It’s going to take forever to shake him off, and even then, he’s never going to leave Harry’s mind. For the rest of Harry’s life, Sam will always be a key character in it. 

“He’s just going to come back,” he hears Sam say. “You’ve known him for almost as long as I have, Liam, he needs me. And he knows it.”

“Bullshit,” Niall tells him. “I’m going to shut the door now, and I swear to God, if you don’t stop knocking I’ll call the police. And then you can talk to them, explain to them why you’re harassing your ex-boyfriend.”

Sam starts to say something, but the sound of the door closing drowns it out and silences him. Harry lets out a sigh too tense to be one of relief, and it’s immediately swallowed when there’s a loud slam, like Sam hit the door. He jolts, startled, and so does Louis. But that’s the last of it. There’s nothing after that. He must’ve realized Liam and Niall weren’t messing around. 

After about a minute, Niall says, “We should get a dog.”

Liam’s response is immediate. “We’re not getting a dog.”

“Why not? We’re allowed to.”

“Our rent will go up. And dogs are dirty.”

“So? They’re cute. And some of them are scary.”

Liam scoffs. “A guy like that isn’t going to be scared of a dog.”

“But it might make Harry feel better. Safer.”

Harry squirms, and Louis laughs quietly. “Lived here for years and they still don’t realize how thin these walls are.”

They’re trying to be nice, though. Niall is, anyway. Or maybe he just wants a dog and finally has an excuse as to why it’s a good idea. Harry doesn’t mind the idea. He hasn’t ever lived with a dog, but they are cute. He could get used to someone always being home with him, along with whoever stays to keep him company that day. 

Liam makes an unhappy noise. “Maybe.”

“It’ll make him happier, too. To have a companion.”

Louis sighs and pats his shoulder. “Gonna go tell them to shush,” he says, before moving out from behind Harry and standing. He leaves the room, and as soon as he’s gone, he hears Niall ask if he wants a dog. 

Despite everything, Harry finds it in him to smile. 

-

After two months of quite literally never leaving the flat and a steady decline in his mental state, the decision to see a therapist is a tough one. He doesn’t want to leave, not when Sam still comes knocking every two weeks or so. Not when they now have a dog that Harry is terrified to leave alone in case Sam does come by when he’s gone and realizes nobody is home. Despite how mighty his bark sounds, Gus is an older, fat English bulldog who Sam would probably have no problem hurting. It gets to the point, though, where Harry has to figure something out because he can’t keep living like this. 

Random showers in the middle of the night, nightmares, intense flashbacks, terrible anxiety and paranoia, crushing self-hatred and fits of sobs is too much for one person to handle. It’s too much, Harry can’t handle it this time, and he needs help. He does, he knows that. The boys have stopped making sure someone is with him constantly, so Harry doesn’t leave the bedroom until he absolutely has to when he’s home alone. Gus sleeps with most of the day, and him asking to be let outside to use the bathroom only poses a threat twice (at which Harry mends by crouching down in front of the open door, ready to bolt back inside if he has to), but it’s getting to the point where Harry can’t see himself feeling safe leaving ever. For himself, he needs to get better. For Louis, too.

It’s not really fair, the way Harry depends on him. It’s just. Louis’ the only one who knows about the assault, and sometimes Harry needs to talk about it. He needs to. But Louis is only one person who should only be expected to take so much; physical and mental abuse is hard enough to have to talk about nearly everyday to begin with -- he sees how hard it is on Liam and Niall, about how they’d rather not talk about it -- but adding sexual abuse into the mix, too, makes it a world heavier. Louis shouldn’t have to feel like he’s Harry’s only resource, that isn’t fair. At all. On either of them. 

One night in which Harry inevitably cries about something, he’s tucked behind Louis in bed, his nose pressed against Louis’ shoulder. Gus is sound asleep against his legs, snoring loudly. Louis’ exhausted from a long day of work, and the first thing he had to deal with was Harry crying again. Louis would never call Harry a burden, but if it’s a little much, Harry could understand that. 

“Louis,” Harry says quietly. “I’m sorry.”

“I swear to you, there’s nothing to apologize about.”

“Yeah, but. Like. I’m gonna see someone, I think. I have to. Putting all this pressure on isn’t right.”

Louis tenses before turning over in bed so they are face to face. His hand comes up, his fingers resting underneath Harry’s jaw. “If you’re ready for that, please, by all means, go for it. But I’ll be here for you while you’re in therapy, too. I’m your friend.”

Harry tilts his head back and closes his eyes. “Few years ago you barely even knew me.”

“A few years ago, I wanted to help you and couldn’t. I can now, and I’m grateful for that.”

He doesn’t say anything for a while, just listening to Gus’ snores and Louis’ quiet breaths. It’s difficult, Louis helping him this much when Harry hasn’t really ever done a thing for Louis. For any of them. Eventually, he says, “I’ll set an appointment for a day where one of you is here to watch Gus.”

Louis snorts. “Okay, H. Don’t worry, your baby will be fine if you leave him for a bit.”

Harry shifts so his foot is resting on top of Gus’ leg to be closer to him. He’s still snoring away, like he is most of the time. 

-

Once he has the appointment set up and the day has arrived, he doesn’t tell Niall or Liam about where he’s going. It’s just. They aren’t going to be home, anyway, Louis is, so there doesn’t seem to be a reason to tell them. It’s not like he thinks they’d judge him or something -- they’d probably be incredibly supportive of the idea -- he just doesn’t want to tell them right now. He wants to keep _some_ things private, and he doesn’t want anyone expecting him to get better right away. He doesn’t really know what to expect from therapy, and he doesn’t want anyone else to have any expectations either. 

“Are you sure you don’t want me to drive you?” Louis asks him. “It’ll be no problem.”

Harry shakes his head, finishes tying his shoes, and stands. “No. I’ll take a taxi, it’s fine. Stay with Gus.”

At the mention of his name, Gus lifts his head off the couch, and Harry scratches his head before nodding at Louis once and heading to the door. He doesn’t want this to be some big thing. It’s -- fine. Lots of people go to therapy, right? It’s fine. It’s fine.

“Well, good luck, mate,” Louis says, and Harry just nods again before leaving the flat. The taxi driver texted that he was outside about a minute ago, so there’s not going to be any waiting necessary outside. He keeps his head down as he walks to the car, even though every single one of instincts is begging him to keep watch, and once he’s inside, some of the tension leaves his body and he smiles at the driver. 

The ride there is short. Too short. Harry wasn’t ready to get here so fast, but it’s fine because it has to be. He’s here to figure his shit out, something he’s desperately needed for years now. The one thing making him less terrified than he already is is knowing that, if he meets the right therapist, maybe he’ll gain the skills or confidence or _something_ to keep him away from Sam. He’s much more scared of Sam than he is of some therapist who hardly even knows him. He just needs somebody to sever that connection for him, because clearly, he doesn’t have the strength to do that on his own. 

In the waiting room, he signs in and fills out the paperwork they hand him. It’s mostly easy, basic questions, up until they ask the reason for him coming here. Which. There’s a lot, probably. But he also doesn’t want to give up all his issues right away. He doesn’t want the therapist thinking he’s a complete headcase, even if maybe that’s true. After a bit of thinking, he writes _bad break up_ in the space provided and leaves it at that. 

While he waits to be called back, he goes on his phone. Even though he has Sam’s number blocked still, every time he opens his phone he notes that there aren’t any notifications from him. There is a text from Louis, though, and one from Niall. Niall’s is about an upcoming sporting match, and Louis’ is a picture of Gus sleeping on his lap. As he goes to respond, his name is being called, and his heart all but stops. 

It’s fine. He’s here to get the help he needs. Deserves even, maybe. That’s what he tells himself as he stands and follows the lady down a hall and to a room. Harry expects there to be more waiting for the actual therapist, but when he steps into the room, an older man with a molded smile is sitting in a chair, waiting for him. And there’s a couch that’s presumably for him to sit on, which. . . Maybe it’s not a bad thing that this feels so cliche. Familiarity should feel good right now. 

“I’m Dr. Melvin,” he says, gesturing for Harry to sit on the couch. He does, sliding his hands underneath his thighs nervously. “You can call me Eric if you prefer.”

“Okay,” Harry says, maybe a little awkwardly because Dr. Melvin chuckles. 

“It’s alright if you’re nervous. What’s your name?”

“Harry.”

“Okay, Harry. I’m going to ask you some questions, and I want you to answer with whatever feels most comfortable to you. Sound okay?”

Harry nods. 

He’s expecting these complex, soul-searching questions, but it isn’t like that at all. Dr. Melvin asks him what his family is like. Where he went to school, what did he study, what is he doing now that he graduated. When Harry admits that he hasn’t done anything with his degree yet, Dr. Melvin asks why. 

_Because Sam made me feel like I didn’t have to._ “I don’t know. Just haven’t.”

They don’t approach scary territory until Dr. Melvin is done with the general questions and moves onto why he’s here. “It says here that you’re here because of a bad break up. Can you tell me more about that?”

After all these months of talking about it with the boys and even Sam, he isn’t prepared to feel so defensive. Protective of himself, almost. Not wanting to go to the police because he was scared of not being believed feels very similar to how he feels right now. 

Dr. Melvin -- Eric, he’s just going to call him Eric, maybe that’ll make him seem less threatening -- must notice his apprehension, because he asks, “What was their name?”

And that’s not scary at all, is it. 

“Sam. Um. He’s a boy.”

“Okay. Tell me about him.”

That’s a hard thing to do. Sam’s such a complex person, isn’t he. One of the boys would probably say that there’s nothing complex about being an asshole, but that’s not exactly fair. Sam is good and kind and funny, and he’s bad and mean and condescending. He took care of Harry better than anybody ever has, and he’s also hurt him worse than anyone else. It’s not an easy thing to do, explaining who Sam is. 

“He’s an accountant,” he says slowly, hoping that’s not useless information. “Um. He’s thirty. And he’s really smart. He has two brothers. We, uh. We’re both from Holmes Chapel. I was almost eighteen when we started dating, umm. We moved to London together when I was nineteen.”

Eric nods steadily while Harry talks, and once he’s done, he says, “How was your relationship?”

Harry smiles thinly. “Complicated.”

“Why did it end?”

Harry’s smile slips, and Eric looks intrigued. 

“Or is that complicated, too?”

“Yeah,” he whispers. “Yeah. It’s -- it’s all complicated.”

“Who ended things?”

“Me, I guess. I don’t know.”

Eric looks confused, and before he even has to ask, Harry explains. “I didn’t want to have to break up with him,” he says, and he hates the way it makes him sound so high and mighty. “I wanted us to work out. He didn’t. . . he didn’t allow for that to happen.”

“In what ways do you feel he hindered your relationship?”

Eric’s his therapist. Will be, anyway, if they mesh well together. He should probably be honest, right? That’s what he’s here for. But the idea of just saying it like this, to pretend that it doesn’t hurt really fucking badly, is an impossible ask. He tries to find the words, but it doesn’t really work. Instead, all he manages is, “He just wasn’t very nice, I guess.”

“How so?”

Harry can’t say it. Doesn’t want to, either. That’s personal. That’s really fucking personal. He can’t just sit here and spill everything that he’s ashamed of. It doesn’t work like that. Maybe Harry made a mistake in coming here. 

Eric stays patient. “Anything you say is confidential,” he reiterates. “And anything you feel is valid. I’m not here to judge, Harry. I’m here to listen.”

“And then after listening, you’ll call me crazy,” Harry says, suddenly irrationally angry. Sam was right; he shouldn’t have bothered with this. Eric won’t understand, he won’t understand any of it. 

“There’s no such thing as crazy,” he says. “Just different definitions of pain.”

Harry huffs out a breath at that. That’s -- stupid. And it also makes Harry heart hurt a bit. He feels so out of control right now that it’s scaring him. 

“What did Sam do that was mean?” Eric asks, trying again. 

Harry rolls his eyes, looking off to the side. He doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t know what Eric _wants_ him to say. And he doesn’t know why he feels so fucking close to crying. 

“He was just mean,” he says uselessly. “He -- to me. He wasn’t nice. He,” he sighs, frustrated. “He thought I was stupid.”

“He told you that?”

Harry nods, biting down harshly on his bottom lip. 

“Did he call you names a lot?”

Again, Harry nods. 

“Is that all he did that was mean? Or is there more to it?”

He knows. He must know. Eric has seen hundreds of people like him. He could probably sense it right when he walked it, that Harry is the type of person someone could easily take advantage of.

“He hit me,” Harry says, and his voice comes out high and pitchy. He’s going to cry. Inevitably, he’s going to cry. That’s going to be humiliating. Between that and the fact that he wasn’t going to bring up the assault the first day, he has absolutely no idea why he feels so goddamn inclined to say, “And he -- he assaulted me, too. Like, sexually.”

It’s after he said it, when the words are in the air and he’s waiting for a response, that he realizes he’s desperately seeking validation. Having his friends believe him is great, but having a professional look him in the eye and say that his pain is real is something else.

“I know I’m a guy,” he says, voice wavering. He’s still looking anywhere that isn’t Eric. “I know that -- that probably means that it isn’t -- I don’t know. I don’t fucking know.”

“Being a man doesn’t change the definition of consent,” Eric says softly. And part of Harry wants to hate that a stranger pities him, and the other part of him just cries. It’s embarrassing, and he sets a hand on his forehead, shielding his eyes, but it’s pointless. God, he didn’t think he’d cry. He didn’t think -- God, this fucking sucks. 

The way Eric slides tissues towards him makes him want to laugh a little bit, and he reaches forward to grab one. 

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles croakily. “I didn’t mean to cry.”

“Crying isn’t a bad thing. Crying can be good for us. It’s nothing to be ashamed for.”

Eric waits for Harry to stop crying to talk again. He’s aware of Harry’s emotions, trying to find the right way to handle them, and that’s. . . It’d be so much easier for Eric, he thinks, if he just talked through Harry’s tears. 

“A lot of men feel like what happened to them doesn’t count as sexual assault strictly because they’re a male. I see it a lot, actually. Too much. A lot of men hide it, or pretend that it never happened, or convince themselves it was actually consensual. It usually takes a long time for them to admit out loud what happened. So, Harry, although I’m sure it’s scary for you, you’re already on a promising path to healing.”

“I miss him,” Harry admits quietly. So quietly. He hasn’t admitted that to anybody this time around. Surely, they would think he was mad if he still was missing him after everything. “I know I shouldn’t, but I do.”

“That’s natural. You were with him for a long time. It’s nothing to be ashamed of, but it is, however, something we need to mend. It’s too often I see that victims go back to their abusers.”

“I already did,” he says miserably. “Almost three years ago, I left him. And then I came back. And I don’t. . . I don’t regret it, which is so fucking stupid. But I don’t want to go through this all again. That’s why I’m here.”

Eric smiles. “I hope I can help guide you down the path you wish to go.”

-

The session with Eric made him feel good, in a twisted, painful version of what goodness is. It’s. . . He leaves feeling like he made the right decision in coming, even if he cried multiple times throughout the fifty minutes. Eric didn’t seem to be bothered by the tears, he said they were normal and nothing to be ashamed of. One meeting in, and he’s already identified Harry as someone who struggles with shame. Over and over again, even if Harry didn’t say he was ashamed of something, Eric would reassure him that whatever he feels is nothing to be ashamed of. And Eric is trained in studying emotion, so his words have weight with Harry. They didn’t go into detail of any of Harry’s trauma today, but Harry’s pretty certain that he’ll eventually feel comfortable enough to do that. 

The session went well. He feels good about himself. So it doesn’t make any sense, does it, that he wants to call Sam so incredibly bad it hurts his chest. He reaches for his phone to call for a taxi in the parking lot of the clinic, but instead of doing that, he debates calling Sam instead. It feels right, somehow. Like that’s what he’s supposed to do. After he left urgent care for his wrist, he talked to Sam. Maybe this is like that. 

He doesn’t want to get back together with him, doesn’t even want to see him, so he convinces himself that it’s okay if he calls. Why, he hasn’t got a clue. Eric would probably think he’s a lost cause already if he knew.

As he sits on a bench and presses the call button, he realizes that this will just make it worse, that Sam will come back to the flat. But it’s. . . he doesn’t even know. He just wants to talk to him. He just spent fifty minutes talking poorly about him, so maybe it’s guilt driving him to this.

Sam doesn’t answer. It stings, but Sam’s also at work so it’s to be expected. He doesn’t leave a message, and he’s typing in the number for a taxi when Sam calls him back. Harry’s heart absolutely plummets, as if this wasn't what he actively sought out. He’s so fucking dumb sometimes. 

“Harry? What are you -- hi. Hi, babe. How are you?”

Hearing Sam’s voice hurts him almost as much as it soothes him. It’s so stupid. It’s so, so fucking stupid. Harry needs to get a fucking grip. What is it going to take? What is going to convince his brain that Sam is _bad?_ Even if there’s some good in him, there’s far more bad, and that needs to get through his head. 

“I’m okay,” he says. “How are you?”

“Definitely not okay.”

“Oh.”

Sam sighs. “Do you know how fucking sad I was when I came home and you weren’t there? Do you realize how much that hurts me?”

Harry pulls back, confused. That’s really fucking bold of him. “No, I don’t. I don’t know. Please, go ahead and tell me how much pain _you_ were in.”

“I fucked up, yes,” Sam says. “But I hadn’t fucked up in a really long time. It’s not right for you to punish me. I can’t be perfect all the time.”

“You raped me in April. And then made me believe I was fucking insane. You fucked up then, and every time after that you purposely messed with my head.”

Lowly, Sam says, “You’re getting quite comfortable with that word, aren’t you. Are you going to call every single time we had sex rape now?”

“No. But I’m not scared to call it like it is.”

That’s a lie. One that Sam probably sees through, too. He doesn’t care.

“Why did you bother to call if you’re just going to be a brat?” he snaps. “I miss you. You know I miss you. You know I want you back home. Isn’t it fucking cruel, calling me like this and being a dickhead? I know I messed up. Don’t you realize I know I’m not a good guy? But I try to be, for you, and it’s never fucking good enough for you.”

“What a weird way to apologize.”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Sam seethes. Harry is being difficult, so maybe he has a right to be angry. “I’m sorry, okay? You know I’m sorry. You know I’d take it back if I could. I was just angry. You had never talked to me like that before, okay, and I just flipped out.”

“I don’t forgive you,” Harry whispers, shaking his head. “I don’t think I can forgive you this time.”

“Please. We both know that’s a lie.”

Harry laughs weakly. “Maybe. I don’t know. You’re probably right.” Tears burn his eyes, and he scrubs a hand over his face, willing them to leave him be for just a few minutes. 

“Of course I am. Just come home, babe. You’re so much happier at home. Just come back.”

“I don’t think so. I don’t know.”

Like last time, Sam tries to take control of the situation by giving Harry a deadline. He says he has to come home in four days or it’s over entirely, and then he hangs up. It’s -- how does he still believe he has all the control here? It’s insane. It’s -- God, Harry had to go ahead and fall in love with the most complicated man on the entire planet, didn’t he?

He says as much when he gets home to Louis and Gus. It’s an offhanded remark, one he makes while petting Gus in his lap, and Louis scoffs at him. 

“He’s not complicated,” Louis says sternly. “A complicated relationship is, like, one person being hung up on their ex or one person wanting to be exclusive while the other doesn’t. Complicated doesn’t equate to abusive.”

“I know that,” he mumbles, feeling a little scolded. Louis must realize it, because he sighs softly and scoots towards him, scratching Gus’ head. Gus grunts at him. 

-

It takes Harry four whole months to feel comfortable leaving the flat for more than a therapy appointment or a quick trip to the grocery store with one of the boys. It’s good for a few reasons. First of all, he was scared of getting stuck inside forever. The longer he stayed inside, the less he wanted to really go out. He started to get lonely, though. Feeling left out. The boys started going out normally again after the second month, satisfied knowing that Harry had Gus to keep him company, and Harry wanted to come with them but felt like he shouldn’t. Most importantly, he needs to get a job. Like, soon. For his sake, and for his flatmates' sake. He’s still not paying his share of rent yet, and that’s not fair, is it, especially since having Gus makes the rent go up.

He needs to become more dependent. Eric told him he’s too codependent, which absolutely baffled him because it felt like Harry’s been struggling alone in life for _years_. But Eric pointed how often Harry alludes to Sam taking care of him, of how he needs to be needed. _It doesn’t mean you’re weak_ , Eric had said. _All it means is that you went from your mum taking care of you to Sam taking care of you, and you haven’t quite figured out what it means to take care of yourself._

And he heavily implied that he can’t let himself latch onto Louis in that way. He said, as of right now, it didn’t seem like Harry was relying on him too much, but that there seemed to be potential for that to happen. 

In order to get ready for a night at a pub, Harry has to do three things. One: cover the scar on his forehead with concealer, because he hates the way it looks, even as it fades. It probably will fade completely, though, which is something he finds comfort in. Two: find an outfit that doesn’t make him feel awkward in his skin. It takes him about a half hour to do this successfully, and once he’s done, he still feels a little stupid in a t-shirt, a pair of black jeans, and boots. And three: take pre-game drinking to a whole new level. 

He doesn’t realize how drunk he already is until Niall intercepts his grab for another shot. “If you get anymore wasted, they might not even let you in.”

Which, alright. Fair enough. Harry feels as loose and free as he’s probably going to get, anyway. 

They all get into the bar perfectly fine, and when they get it, Louis and Harry find a booth while Liam and Niall get food and drinks. Once they find a booth that’s in a space not so crowded, they sit. 

Harry’s people-watching, and Louis apparently watching him, because he nudges him and says, “You look happy.”

Harry bites his bottom lip to prevent himself from smiling stupidly wide at that. “I feel good. Like. Yeah. I’m not as anxious as I thought I’d be.” Gus will be fine. Harry left him sleeping in his bed, and Sam hasn’t come knocking in a while now. And it’s not like Sam would come to a pub like this, anyway. He always preferred the classier places.

“Probably has something to do with the four shots you had before coming.”

Harry just shrugs, now not being able to stop himself from grinning. At his smile, Louis smiles, too, and then Liam and Niall are coming with fries and beers.

The night is exactly what Harry needed. Fun, but not too overwhelming. More of a reassurance than anything that he hasn’t lost the ability to enjoy himself or a night out with his friends. It’s the best day Harry’s had since leaving Sam, probably, and that’s exhilarating. Sam isn’t his everything, he doesn’t have to be his entire life, and he has to convince himself that’s true. Tonight is the first step in doing that. 

He’s gloriously drunk when they get home, as are the other boys. Liam heads to bed right away, and Louis is only behind him by twenty minutes. Niall and Harry spend the next hour or so blearily staring at the TV screen. Harry’s only catching about twenty percent of it, more fixated on Gus who is snuggled into his side, so he has no idea how much Niall is actually processing either. Not much, apparently, because before it’s even over, he groans quietly and says he’s going to bed. 

Harry makes an incoherent sound as a response while he leaves, and once he’s gone, it’s just him and Gus. He’s happy. He’s drunk. He had a good night out, and it’s two in the morning. He’s barely even awake. There’s all these reasons as to why he tries to shut down the idea of calling Sam again, and only about one in favor of doing it anyway. There is no point in calling Sam, absolutely zero good reasons backing it up, and everything inside of him is telling him that it’s a bad idea, but somehow, he ends up stumbling to the farthest corner of the kitchen from the back room anyway, dials Sam’s number, and waits.

He’s such an idiot. Calling him after that first therapy session might have been justified; he was thinking about Sam for an hour straight and felt guilty. But now, Sam hasn’t been on the forefront of his mind all night. How is Harry ever going to remove himself from Sam if he can’t stop himself from doing this? It’s pathetic. It’s -- he’s literally holding himself back, and he can’t stop himself. What the hell is he supposed to do with that?

“H,” he hears a voice say, and he jerks away from the phone, too far in his thoughts to realize Sam had answered. “It’s two in the morning.”

Harry slides down to the kitchen floor. He rests his head against the cabinet and focuses on the coolness of the tiles. “I’m really drunk,” he mumbles. He gets distracted by Gus hopping off the couch and coming towards him. He lays by Harry with a loud huff, and Harry sets a hand on his back. 

“Do you need me to pick you up?”

And that hurts, because Sam sounds concerned and gentle and not at all as short as he did during their last conversation. 

“No, I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?” Sam asks. “I,” he sighs. “I can drive you back to your flat, if you need. If you’re as drunk as you sound, you should call somebody.”

“I’m already home, Sam. But thanks. Really.”

Sounding hopeful, Sam asks, “So you just called to talk to me?”

“I guess so.” Harry closes his eyes, but immediately reopens them when he realizes just how tired he is. He yawns, pulling his knees closer to his chest. “You had a boyfriend before me,” he says randomly. “And a few girlfriends. Did you hit them, too?” He’s curious; is it just how Sam is, or is it Harry? He’s never really thought about it before.

“Harry,” Sam says mildly. “I don’t want to do this right now.”

“It’s just a question.”

“A question I don’t feel like answering.”

Harry scoffs quietly. “So the answer is yes, then. You would have jumped at the opportunity to say no.”

“I don’t know what you expect me to say.”

“Nothing,” Harry admits, shrugging to himself. “I don’t know why I’m even calling you. Again. The boys would fucking kill me if they found out. I just. . . I don’t know. I don’t know, Sam.”

“Do you miss me?”

“I’m always going to miss you,” he answers easily. 

Sam sounds sad. “Then why won’t you just come home?”

“Because I miss me, too.”

It sounds so stupid to say out loud, but it doesn’t make it feel any less true. He does miss himself. Feels like he doesn’t even know who he is, really. All he has been is Sam’s boyfriend since he was eighteen. That and being a victim of Sam’s abuse has been his entire identity for _years_. During those months that he left Sam the first time, he had felt like he was beginning to get to know himself again, and then he went and gave it all up. He wants to get back to that. 

“I’m so tired,” Harry tells him. 

Sam sighs. “Then go to bed, love. Call me in the morning, though, okay? And don’t -- please unblock my number. It’s not fair that you can call me when you miss me but I can’t call you when I miss you. Just. Unblock my number so I can text you every once and awhile, please.”

“I don’t know.” It’s hard saying that when Sam sounds so defeated, but he knows how this will work. Either Sam won’t stay true to his word and will absolutely blow up Harry’s phone with notifications, or he’ll lure Harry back with a few texts. Harry’s weak, and so is Sam. They can’t keep doing this. 

“Goodnight, Sam.”

“Goodnight, sweetheart. I love you.”

Harry exhales shakily, his stomach fluttering at that. He can’t say it back, he can’t, but he also can’t trust himself to open his mouth when he knows those words will be the only ones to come out, so he hangs up the call then. Despite what Sam asked, Harry blocks his number again before patting Gus’ back and leading them to bed. 

-

In the midst of applying to random jobs that pertain to his English degree, he gets a suggestion to work at a nursing home. At first, he doesn’t even consider it; that’s nowhere near his field of work and he’s sure he wouldn’t have the qualifications for it. After a few weeks of applying and getting nowhere, though, he figures he might as well look at it. 

Transporter. Physical labor required. Starting salary: eleven pounds an hour. 

On a whim, he puts in an application. It’s just his luck, isn’t it, that the one job he applies for that is out of his line of work is the one he gets an interview for. None of the ones that he put hours into his applications for, because that would have been too convenient, wouldn’t it have. 

He takes the interview though. Of course he does. It’s been five months of him living with the boys again, and nobody has brought up rent to him, but he knows they’re all thinking it. 

Harry’s lying in bed shirtless because it’s bloody hot in the flat and he’s too lazy to go fight with Liam over the thermostat when he gets the call from the nursing home after his interview. He’s talking to the lady on the phone when Louis comes in the room, finally home from work, and Harry motions for him to come over. Louis doesn’t need much convincing; he drops his bag on the floor, kicks off his shoes, and crawls into bed with Harry. 

Louis’ tracing over the tattoos on Harry’s forearm when the lady on the phone says, “And we’d think you’d be a really good fit here, and you can start Monday.” Louis sits up, grinning, and Harry gets momentarily distracted grinning back at him to realize he should probably respond to that. 

After a beat too long, he says, “Uh, yes. Of course. Thank you.”

“Great,” she says. “We’ll see you Monday, then.”

Harry hangs up after that, and Louis pats his cheek proudly. “Good on you. Working with the eldery. So noble.”

“Mum’s going to kill me,” Harry mumbles, stretching out. He loops his fingers around Louis’ wrist and squeezes, just because. “She paid half of my tuition for uni only for me to do absolutely nothing with it for years.”

It’s an odd thing to note, considering he’s been avoiding his mum for a while. He talked to her once about a month ago just to get her off his back, but it’s been infrequent texts besides that. It doesn’t seem like Sam rang her this time around, so Anne thinks they’re still together, and for now Harry wants to keep it like that. He texted Gemma a couple weeks back to let her know that they broke up again and not to tell their mum, but that was only because his sister had been so angry at him when she found out he got back with him in the first place. He didn’t need her worrying over nothing. 

“Think she’d rather you be happy,” Louis says softly, his hand moving down to rest on Harry’s neck. “I think that’s what everyone wants for you.”

Everything feels overwhelming all the sudden, so Harry squeezes Louis’ wrist again and says, “You know what would make me very happy? If you turned the temperature down and took the blame when Liam gets pissy.”

Louis sighs and pulls away, shaking his head. He gets out of bed, though. “The things I’d do for you, Styles,” he grumbles as he leaves the room. 

It takes twenty minutes for Liam to notice it’s gotten cooler in the flat, and when he comes to investigate, Louis is already tucked into Harry’s side again, asleep, and Harry plays dumb. 

-

Despite some other things changing these past few years, one thing remains the same: if there’s something to celebrate, then it will be celebrated with lots of liquor and dancing, no matter what. Harry almost can’t go to his own celebration event and Niall basically tells him tough luck. Harry figures out a way to come, although he is slightly amused at the idea of Louis, Niall and Zayn celebrating Harry’s new job without Harry present. 

It’s Harry's third night out like this, so he doesn’t feel the need to get completely hammered beforehand. His anxiety has calmed down a bit in these last few weeks, something he contributes to therapy so he convinces himself to continue going, so he’s not too apprehensive about going. He does, however, get drunk at the club, because they can’t expect him to dance if he’s sober. He dances with Zayn, and then Zayn’s girlfriend, but after a while he wants another drink and Louis tells everyone he’s headed to the bar, so Harry tags along. 

“What do you want?” Louis asks him, leaned into him, mouth right by his ear. It’s loud in here, so loud, and it gets impossibly louder when Harry’s heart starts pounding in his chest. 

“Just a rum and coke,” he says, and Louis nods, pats his chest, and turns around to order for them both. As he does, Harry stares at him and, well. Louis looks good tonight Louis looks good every night, doesn’t he. Whenever he has any sort of attraction for anybody, his mind immediately closes it down, a siren yelling _Sam Sam Sam_ that makes him feel impossibly guilty. He’s drunk, though. So drunk. And it’s not like he hasn’t kissed Louis before. 

He’s bloody terrified but also curious, so he’s thankful for the time given to him by Louis wanting to stay at the bar for a bit. They lean against a wall nearby, away from the crowds. It’s still loud enough for Louis to need to be close so they can hear each other, though. 

“That dude over there is wasted,” Louis points out casually, pointing at a man in the crowd who looks like he can hardly stand. Harry nods dumbly, too hyper focused on kissing Louis to think about anything else. He just wants a bit of fun like the last two times, and he wants that fun to be with Louis. 

Harry’s drank most of his drink and Louis’ halfway done with his cosmo when Harry decides to just go for it. Louis’ turned to him just the right way for Harry to lean down a bit and kiss him. Despite his nervousness about it, he didn’t think he’d be rejected, so he’s more than confused when Louis almost immediately pulls away and sets a firm hand on Harry’s shoulder, stopping him from trying again. 

“Harry,” Louis says slowly, looking apologetic. He licks his lips before shaking his head. “You’re drunk.”

“So are you.”

“Yeah, but it’s -- it’s different.”

 _How?_ dies in his throat when Harry realizes what he means. The only difference between now and the other two times they did this drunk is that Louis knows about what happened to him. He’s -- God, that’s not fair. That’s not fair at all. What the _fuck._ How fucking embarrasing is that. Harry pulls away completely, his entire body on fire with shame. 

“Harry,” Louis says, pleading, almost. 

“No, fuck you.” There’s little heat behind it. It’s hard to feel angry when he’s just so fucking sad. “That’s not fair. You can’t just treat me differently because you know what happened. That’s -- I didn’t tell you about it so you could go ahead and use it against me.”

“That’s not what I’m doing.”

Harry scoffs. “That’s exactly what you’re doing.”

“I don’t want you to regret it,” Louis tells him. “I don’t -- I know you think you want it now, but I don’t want you waking up sober and realizing you actually didn’t.”

That makes Harry flinch even more, because that’s -- what the fuck. He can practically hear Sam saying those exact words to him. _I’m not going to fuck you so you don’t go ahead and use the excuse of rape in the morning_. He’d totally say something like that, and here Louis is, saying it to him, too. Telling him what he wants. 

Harry rolls his eyes, swallows around the lump of heat gathering in his throat, and shakes his head. After downing the rest of his drink, he sets it on the counter a little harder than needed and turns to leave, but Louis asks him to wait. 

“Forget about it,” Harry snaps. 

“That’s not what I meant,” Louis says. 

“I know exactly what you meant.”

He turns to leave again, but this time, Louis grabs his wrist so he doesn’t leave. Harry yanks his wrist out of the hold on reflex, and once he collects himself enough, he snaps, “Careful. Wouldn’t want me calling that physical abuse when I get sober in the morning.”

“You’re being ridiculous,” he hears Louis call after him, sounding guilty, but Harry keeps walking until he’s back with the rest of the group. They’re talking about something, all huddled together, and Gigi pulls him into her side and into the group. Harry wraps his arm around her waist. His head is far too fuzzy with humiliation to figure out what the hell they’re talking about, so he doesn’t even try to listen. 

Harry manages to avoid being alone with Louis for the rest of the night, but once they get home, he’s met with the issue of them sharing the same room. Harry debates being petty enough to stay out in the living room until he’s sure Louis is asleep, but he’s far too tired and sad for that. He just wants to go to bed with Gus, so he heads to the room a few minutes after Louis. 

Louis’ sitting up in bed, clearly waiting for him. Harry doesn’t look at him as he changes into his pajamas, and Louis doesn’t start talking until Harry slides into bed. 

“I wasn’t saying that you’d -- ”

Harry interrupts him as quickly as possible. “I don’t want to talk about it. I’m going to sleep.” Gus hops up on his bed as if to prove his point, and Harry scratches his head and makes room for him to get comfortable. 

“Just let me talk. Please.”

Harry closes his eyes and wills himself to go to sleep as fast as possible. 

“I didn’t stop the kiss because I was scared you were going to, like, accuse me of something. It wasn’t like that. I just. You haven’t been intimate with anybody else yet, and you still struggle with it if your nightmares are anything to go by, and -- ”

“And you thought you understood my trauma better than I do,” Harry finishes angrily. “You thought I couldn’t make decisions for myself because I’m, like, fucking damaged or something. I get it.”

“Please don’t put words in my mouth. I just want to fix this.”

“Well, according to you, I can only think right when I’m sober, so maybe this should wait until the morning. I’m going to sleep.”

He needs to before he starts to cry, and if Louis keeps talking, he most definitely will. Thankfully, Louis has some mercy on him and doesn’t say anything else about it. Instead, he sighs quietly and lays down himself before saying goodnight.

And Harry’s mad as anything, but he can’t help himself from saying, “Goodnight, Louis.”

-

In the morning, Harry narrowly avoids having to see Louis. He hears Louis leave five minutes before Harry has to get up for his therapy appointment, and once he’s gone, he lets out a deep breath. 

Either Louis was right about him thinking clearer when sober, or regret has had time to set in. Either way, Harry is embarrassed about last night for more reasons than just being rejected. It was wrong of him to paint Louis in such a bad light when he’s never done anything to deserve it. And he shouldn’t have blown up like that, either, it was just -- a lot. Louis didn’t want to kiss him, and that should have been enough and Harry shouldn’t have thrown a fit. He’s still upset that Louis treated him differently last night just because of what happened with Sam, but he recognizes that that’s not exactly fair. When Harry had told Louis he was assaulted, he gave up the right of controlling how Louis felt about the situation. About him. You can’t tell someone how to react to something like that. 

He’s beating himself up about the whole situation all morning, so he’s relieved that he can sit down to talk about it with Eric. Even if he was in the wrong; sometimes it’s nice having someone tell you politely and kindly that you have your head up your ass. 

Eric doesn’t tell him that, though. Instead, Eric says that maybe Harry shouldn’t be so hard on himself. 

“You said it’s something that Sam would say,” he points out. “Maybe that’s why you overreacted. Comparing the situation to Sam, which also linked the argument to the sexual assault, made the situation seem more intense. And you, to put it simply, panicked.”

It’d be really easy, he thinks, to become complacent with that. To write off everything he does wrong or everything he regrets as a product of Sam’s abuse. It doesn’t seem very fair, though. To him, or to his friends. 

When he says this, Eric smiles warmly at him. “One of the hardest things to accomplish as a hurt individual is to balance on that line of taking accountability for our actions while also being gentle with ourselves. Louis is. . . Louis seems smart. He seems to take great care for how you’re feeling. So, I’m assuming he’d be understanding of what happened last night. Of why you reacted the way you did. You just have to talk to him. And not just about the aftermath of the kiss. I think it’s in your best interest to talk about that, too.”

Harry stares at him, not speaking, for a solid thirty seconds before shaking his head. “It’s just a kiss.”

“It’s the third time you’ve been intimate with him. That you’ve _wanted_ to be intimate with him.”

“So?”

“He’s the only person you’ve allowed yourself to be intimate with after Sam. That says something to me.”

Harry shakes his head sternly. That’s -- no. No. “I kissed two other girls after the first time I left him.”

“Yet you didn’t feel the need to mention that until now, but you told me about Louis at our second meeting.”

“Stop it,” Harry says, too breathless to be aggressive. It’s just -- no. No, that’s all he lets himself think, because he doesn’t want to admit to himself that he still cares. “Louis’ my friend.”

“Okay,” Eric says calmly, nodding. “And that’s fine if that’s all it is. And it’s fine if there’s more, too.”

“I,” Harry bites on his bottom lip, hard. He shouldn’t say it out loud. Even though Eric wouldn’t judge him, Harry would most certainly judge himself. It’s no use, though. His shoulders deflate and he rubs a hand over his forehead before saying, “I couldn’t do that to Sam. That’s -- that’s -- I don’t even know. He doesn’t deserve that.”

“Sam is your ex-boyfriend, Harry. You don’t owe loyalty to him anymore.”

“But he’d be so sad if he found out. He doesn’t deserve that.”

Eric looks like he might sigh, but he doesn’t. “What do _you_ deserve, Harry?”

Harry closes his mouth and doesn’t say anything to that, because he doesn’t have an answer for that. He doesn’t know what he deserves, and that’s sad.

“Do you think you deserve love and affection if that’s what you crave from someone you trust, or do you think you deserve to feel indebted to someone who hurt you?”

“It’s not that simple,” Harry mumbles, staring at his hands. 

Eric is silent for about a minute, maybe expecting Harry to say something else. Eventually, he says, “Happiness isn’t always a choice. But being complacent in your pain is. I know it’s hard, but allowing yourself to move on from Sam, allowing yourself to fully believe that you’ll forever be closed off from that type of hurt, will help you understand what you want. What you deserve.”

Quietly, Harry says, “Sam isn’t the only person who could hurt me. There’s -- it’d be better, I think, to be with someone who I understand a bit. Who loves me at least half the time rather than not love me at all.”

“Do you think Louis could hurt you like that?”

“I don’t know,” he admits shamefully. It brings tears to his eyes. Louis would be so hurt if he heard him say that. And he doesn’t believe Louis would ever do something to intentionally hurt him, but how is he supposed to _know?_ “Sam was nice at first, too.”

He has to look up then -- if Eric doesn’t think he’s wrong for being apprehensive, maybe he won’t feel so goddamn guilty -- and Eric looks sad, almost. 

“We can’t spend our whole lives scared of the unknown. Especially when what we do know is already scary enough. There’s no certain way we can know what or who will hurt us, just like there’s no certain way we can know what or who will help heal us.”

“But he didn’t want to even kiss me. What’s the point of talking about this if he didn’t even want to kiss me last night?”

“He didn’t want to kiss you drunk,” Eric corrects. “And he might not want to kiss you sober, either. But don’t you think it’s worth finding out?”

Harry nods slowly, uncertain. 

“Talk to him,” Eric says. “You’ll never know until you talk to him.”

-

Harry does talk to him. Sort of. About what he’d argue is the main issue here. 

When Louis gets in from work, stress heats Harry’s chest as he looks anywhere that isn’t him. Louis says hi to him and Liam, who are sitting on the couch, and only Liam responds. Once Louis’ in their room, Liam nudges Harry, looking confused. 

“You two fighting or something?”

“No,” Harry mumbles miserably, standing up. “Don’t worry about it.”

He follows Louis to their room, hoping that they get this resolved as quickly and painlessly as possible. He doesn’t want it following them all night. Louis looks pleasantly surprised when Harry comes in and sits on the bed. He finishes getting changed before sitting on his own bed, across from Harry. 

“Can we talk about it now?” Louis asks, and he sounds so upset about the whole thing that Harry forces himself to be the one to start fixing it. 

“I didn’t, um.” He looks off to the side; just because he wants to talk first doesn’t mean he has to look at him while he does. “I didn’t expect you to tell me no. And, like. It went from being this thoughtless, fun thing to something else, and I just. . . I was, like, projecting my issues onto you, onto what you were saying, and -- um. Yeah. I’m sorry.”

“Thank you,” Louis says softly. Harry looks at him briefly, so fast that he barely has a chance to really see him. “What I meant to say didn’t come out right. I wasn’t, like, rejecting you because of -- because of anything else aside from the fact that I was more sober than you were. The other two times, we were both wasted, but last night -- I don’t know. It just felt different.”

“I shouldn’t have made you feel guilty for saying no.”

And it hurts to say that, to admit that’s what he unintentionally did. Just because he’s been hurt like that doesn’t mean he’s suddenly free from making the same mistakes. 

“It wasn’t like that,” Louis says, with urgency in his voice. “Like -- I don’t know. I wasn’t -- I didn’t feel like you were doing that. If I told you no, I know you would have stopped. You _did_ stop.”

“Can we forget about this then? Please?”

Louis nods. “Yeah.”

Harry gives him a stiff smile before leaving. He’s relieved that they got that sorted, but it’s not like it’s been long enough for him to forget about what else Eric wanted him to discuss with Louis. But Harry’s not ready to completely sever his ties with Sam, and admitting something he might or might not feel would be the sure way to do that.

-

There’s something to be said about the fact that Harry has an easier time at making friends with the elderly people at work than his coworkers. Or anyone near his age, really. 

There’s Mildred, who’s eighty-nine. She has an American accent, and for some reason, that makes it a little less terrifying when she yells at him. One day, she’s delighted to see him, and the next, she acts like he’s here just to spite her. 

Carrie doesn’t know who she is most days, but she’s always kind to Harry and calls him cute and squeezes his cheeks. Her friend, Matthew, is a little cranky with everyone, but since Carrie has a soft spot for Harry, Matthew begrudgingly puts up with him. 

Frank is a gentle, kind old man who doesn’t get a lot of family visiting him. He’s always in the mood for conversation, no matter what. He likes being read to. He’d read himself, but his eyes have gone bad and his hands are too shaky. So Harry reads for him. Whenever he isn’t busy, he stops by Frank’s room to read for him or to talk to him. Frank has cried a few times. About the story, and sometimes about other things. Usually, he doesn’t talk about what he’s upset about, but sometimes he does. 

One day, about a week back, Harry was reading _The Great Gatsby_ to him, and Frank interrupted to tell him about his wife. Her name was Molly Greene, and they married when they were nineteen. For their entire marriage, they loved each other like mad, Frank said. He talked about her like she was the most beautiful person to ever grace the planet. But she died when she was only fifty, and Frank’s been alone ever since. 

“They don’t warn you about that,” Frank told him, sniffling quietly. “You know what I mean? They warn you about falling out of love or settling for the wrong person, but they don’t tell you what to do when you’re not the one who gets to die first.”

Harry had no idea what to say. He apologized, but that felt so trivial compared to what Frank had just said. 

“Ah, it’s all right, kid,” Frank said, smiling tightly. “I’m going to be sleeping with the fishes here soon enough.”

“Not too soon,” Harry whispered. “We haven’t finished our book.”

It made Frank smile, then, a real one this time. 

Once the other residents caught onto the fact that Harry was reading to Frank, some of them wanted to be part of it, too. Even the meaner ones, like Matthew and this grouchy old woman named Audrey. It’s nothing huge, but it doesn’t have to be. There’s a small group of people that he can be the best part of the day for. Arguably, these are the people who deserve this the most. So, when Harry’s not busy, or when he comes in for an hour or so just to read to them, his little group of people will gather in front of him and he’ll just read. 

It’s a calming thing, reading. He hadn’t realized it before, but to look at someone else’s life, to analyze someone else’s problems and relationships. . . His own life starts to feel less complicated. He might have an asshole of an ex-boyfriend, but at least he isn’t fighting dragons or being found shot dead in his own pool or expelled from prep school to venture out onto the streets of NYC by himself. And he might have been heartbroken by someone like Sam, but at least he hasn’t suffered heartbreak by someone like Molly. 

-

It’s been two weeks since Harry tried to kiss Louis drunk, and thirteen days of him pondering the idea of kissing him sober. It has stayed an idle thought, until today. Until it’s just Louis and Harry and Gus at the flat, and Harry can’t stop thinking about doing it. He still hasn’t let himself even think about the possibility of this being more than something platonic, but for something so casual, he must admit he puts too much thought into it. 

Again, he isn’t prepared to be rejected. The last time, Louis pushed him away because he was drunk. Well, he’s sober now. Both of them are. The only thing he thinks that could go wrong is Louis just not being all that interested. Again, Harry’s wrong. 

It’s not the kiss that Louis rejects. When Harry finally gains the courage to do it, they’re sitting shoulder to shoulder on the sofa, taking a break from playing Mario Kart on the TV. The kiss is soft and warm and does good to help soothe the dull panic that kicks up in Harry’s chest. It lasts a minute, maybe a little more, before Louis pulls away. 

He doesn’t look particularly happy. Harry’s heart sinks.

It’s silent for an awkward, painful handful of seconds before Harry sits back, stares at the TV, and quietly asks, “Should I not have done that?”

“Depends,” Louis murmurs. “Why’d you do it?”

Harry shrugs jerkily. “Why not?”

“Because if you kissed me and said it was because you, like. Felt something about me, and if you kissed me and said it’s just for fun, those are two very different things that would have very different reactions.”

Shame twists itself around his veins, suffocating him. No matter what happens, it feels like there’s always something to be ashamed about. Like Harry always manages to mess things up. He doesn’t know what to say to that -- how can he provide an answer to a question that he can’t even allow himself to think about one of the options? -- but when Louis makes an expectant noise, all he can do is shrug again. 

“If I said it was just for fun?”

Louis shrugs back. “Then I would say that, as fun as that would be, I will have to pass.”

“And if I said it was -- the other one?”

Harry braces himself for the answer, and Louis sighs. 

“You didn’t,” he says softly. Harry looks at him, confused, and Louis just looks sad, almost. “Let’s just keep playing the game, okay? Liam’ll be home with dinner soon.”

A little dazed, Harry nods and picks up the control. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, sure.”

-

Figuring out what the fuck is going through is own head is about the most difficult thing ever. It’s impossible to do when one side of himself won’t stop thinking _Sam Sam Sam Sam, what about Sam, don’t forget about Sam,_ and the other part of himself is actually trying to figure out what he feels. It’s driving him insane. 

“If you can’t figure out what you want,” Eric told him a week after the failed sober kiss, “maybe it’s best to hold off on the idea of moving onto someone new. There’s no rush.”

But now it’s been a month, a whole bloody _month,_ since he kissed Louis sober, and he still isn’t any closer to figuring out what he wants. Thinking about Louis, thinking about _anyone,_ is impossible to do when it feels like Sam still feels like he has a hold on him. 

He feels like he can’t be blamed for calling Sam. He actually has a motive this time, though, he isn’t just hopelessly missing him: he needs to figure this out. He needs some guidance or something. And if Sam can show him what he wants, then he’s desperate enough to risk it. 

To get out of the house since they’re all home, he waits until they’re all doing something -- Niall’s napping, Louis’ cooking and Liam’s seemingly having a fight with his computer -- and says he’s going to take Gus out for a walk. It’s not _that_ weird; he’s gone out with one of them to talk Gus out for a walk a few separate times. He hasn’t gone by himself yet, but he’s sure they won’t question it. 

Liam doesn’t look up from his laptop when he says, “I already took him out this morning.”

“He’s obese,” Louis chimes in from the question. “He can handle an extra walk.”

Harry makes a noise of offense. “He is _not._ The vet said he’s healthy.”

“The vet said he needs to lose five pounds, which, when he’s a small dog, means he’s -- ”

“Okaay,” Harry interrupts, shaking Gus’ leash. Gus leaps up off the couch, snorting happily. “I will take my fat but happy dog out for a walk. Be back in, like, twenty.”

“Be safe,” Liam says, and Harry nods before hooking Gus’ leash onto his collar and taking him out. 

He walks around the block twice before finally calling Sam. It’s a weekend, so he’s prepared for Sam to answer; he does. 

“Haz,” Sam says, sounding tired. “How are you?”

Harry had this plan to come in guns blazing, demanding to know if Sam has slept with anybody else and admitting himself that he wants to. At the sound of Sam’s voice, though, that anger turns to mush. _Harry_ turns to mush. He tightens his grip on Gus’ leash and takes a deep breath. 

“Hi. I’m fine. How are you?”

“Still going absolutely crazy waiting for you to come back home.”

Harry bites on his bottom lip and tries to think carefully about what he says next. If he so much as says _anything_ that could insinuate he potentially has feelings for someone else, that might end poorly for him. Like, very poorly. Sam thinks he’s coming back, and that’s why he’s remaining so calm. This version of Sam can be called calm, and Harry’s seen him angry, but he’s sure they will reach a whole new level of irate if Harry tells him anything. 

So, he has to decide. Decide between letting Sam go completely and risking his life, or staying in this painful land of limbo. It’s. . . He doesn’t know if Louis is worth all that. It sounds awful, but it’s true. He doesn’t even know if Louis likes him; hell, he doesn’t even really know for sure if _he_ likes Louis. So maybe this isn’t about Louis, maybe it’s about himself. Maybe by being honest with Sam, something he’s never been afforded the opportunity to do, he can do that thing Eric was telling him about. Figuring out what he deserves. 

A scared voice in the back of his head is telling him that he doesn’t have to do this today. He could wait a few days, a few weeks, months, even. Wait until he has more things figured out. But he’s so sick of giving into that fear. He’s -- God, he’s never not going to love Sam. That’s the whole problem. He just has to stop letting Sam love him. 

“Maybe you shouldn’t,” Harry says quietly. 

Sam pauses. “What do you mean?”

“Maybe you shouldn’t wait. I mean. . . maybe you don’t have to wait for me.”

“The fuck does that even mean, Harry?”

Harry licks his lips nervously. He looks down at Gus, who is content in waddling ahead, not worried about a thing. “If I come back,” he says, “then I come back. But if I don’t -- you don’t have to wait for me. Do -- I don’t know. Do what you want to do, and then if I come back, -- ”

“Why are you so bloody sure it’s an ‘if’ all the sudden?”

“Sam,” he whispers. “We both deserve better than this. _I_ deserve better than this. I can’t keep living my life like I’m going to end up with you no matter what. That’s shooting myself in the foot.”

There’s no point in pretending like he’s speaking strongly. His voice is just as frail as he has always been. But for once, he can get his point across, even in his weakness. 

“I deserve a boyfriend who isn’t pussy enough to just leave while I’m not home,” Sam snaps. He’s angry, thinking he’s made some profound point, when all he’s done is give support to Harry’s.

“Yes,” Harry says, “you do.”

“The fuck do you think you know about dating?” Sam continues, fear and anger coming together to create loud desperation in his voice. “You’ve been with me for fucking forever. You think it’s easy, finding someone else? It’s not. You’re going to fail, Harry, and if you do this, you’re not going to have me to come back to.”

“I’ll figure it out.”

Gus is starting to really pant now, so Harry bends down to give him an encouraging pet before turning them around and heading back home. He’s got the feeling this conversation is almost over with, anyway. 

“Nobody else is going to put up with this shit, Harry. You’re going to realize that you had it good with me, I promise you. You’re going to learn that the hard way.”

“I’ll take my chances,” Harry says quietly. “I think you should, too.” 

“Harry, I swear to God, if you -- ”

“I have to go, Sam,” Harry interrupts quickly. He can’t take hearing threats. Not anymore. 

“No, you listen to me. I’m -- ”

Softly, Harry says, “Goodbye, Sam.” He gives it a second, two, to wait and see if Sam’s going to properly respond to him or just keep yelling. He does the latter, so Harry takes a deep breath and hangs up the phone. He re-blocks Sam’s number before looking down at Gus, and he smiles gently. There are tears in his eyes, but he figured this couldn’t be done without them. 

“Come on, Gus,” he whispers. “Let’s go home.”

Gus just keeps panting, and together, they continue forward. 

-

For the first time in years, Harry doesn’t feel like he’s choking on regret. 

He can’t say he feels free, or brave, or strong, but for once, he feels like he knows he made the right decision. Making it clear with Sam that he is done, at least for a while, is the best thing he could have done for himself. Even if it makes him painfully sad. Even if it makes his nightmares more frequent for a bit. It’s worth it, because Harry finally feels like he did something right for once.

When he tells Eric about it, he smiles proudly and calls it a breakthrough. Harry’s working on not craving validation from others so much, but since he hasn’t told the boys for no real reason other than he doesn’t want them knowing he called him at all, it feels nice to have someone be proud of him, too. 

About a week later, in celebration of Louis getting a fifty pence raise, they go to yet another club, yet again have too many drinks, and Harry yet again kisses someone. It’s not Louis, though, and he doesn’t even necessarily want it to be. 

He’s leaning over the bar, ordering a drink for himself and Liam, when someone sits on the stool beside him. He doesn’t give her a second glance, so he’s a bit caught off guard when she leans towards him and asks what he ordered. 

“A Mai Tai and a Screwdriver,” he says slowly, trying to work this out. There’s nothing even to work out yet, is there, but she looks. . . interested. She does, right? Harry can’t quite tell. Would it matter if she was? He doesn’t know that, either. She’s pretty, though. The red lipstick she’s wearing compliments her dark skin nicely, makes her teeth look that much whiter. 

“Add a Cosmopolitan to that, if you want,” she says, smiling in this slow, knowing type of way. She’s confident, and that makes him nervous. He doesn’t do confidence. 

“Sure,” he says, and he tells the bartender to add the drink to his bill. It dawns on him, then, that maybe all she wanted was a free drink. It’s what she got, too. He doesn’t mind it all that much. 

He gets his and Liam’s drinks first, and he’s about to decide to leave before making sure she gets hers when she leans closer to him. 

“I was hoping you would start the small talk,” she says. Her voice is so -- it’s flirty, but also so relaxed. “I’m not too good at it.”

Harry offers her a small smile. “You seem good at it to me.”

“Oh, no. That drink line is about the only thing I’ve got.”

“Worked,” he says, and he finds himself starting to actually smile, no longer having to fake it. She’s confident, but not cocky. Not obnoxious about it. Not threatening with it. 

The bartender sets the Cosmopolitan down in front of him, and he slides it to her. She accepts it and takes a small sip of it before putting it down. 

“Thank you -- ?”

It takes him a second to realize she’s asking his name. “Harry,” he says, a little quickly. God, maybe Sam was right. Maybe he doesn’t know how to do this at all. 

“I’m Quinn.”

“Pretty name.”

“Pretty name for a pretty girl,” she says, shrugging with mischief in her eyes. _She’s_ good at this, fuck. Harry feels transfixed, a bit. More than a bit. 

Liam’s going to be wondering where his drink is. Harry doesn’t care. 

“Yeah,” he agrees. He stands up straighter before taking a seat at the bar stool beside hers. He wants to send the message that he’s maybe interested, too, and she seems to understand it, because she winks at him before taking another sip of her drink. 

“You here with somebody?” she asks. 

Harry nods. “Yeah. Three somebody’s. But I’m not -- ” he stops himself from saying something stupid. “They’re not waiting on me, or anything. How about you, are you here with anybody?”

“I am now,” she says, and shit. Harry likes this Quinn. Liam can wait. 

-

Going back to her place is a strict no-go. The idea of it alone is enough to flare up his paranoia, but he doesn’t have time to dwell on it because she doesn’t make a big deal of it and asks if they can go back to his instead. 

It’s only eleven-thirty. The boys will be here for at least another hour, so Harry will have time to -- do whatever Quinn wants. And what he wants, too, but she’s going to be the one to call the shots. Harry’s pretty sure he wouldn’t know what the fuck to do during sex if someone wasn’t telling him what they wanted. 

“I’ll go let my mates know I’m leaving,” he tells her, and the way he squeezes her knee so naturally as he gets up is so fucking scary. This whole thing is scary. He’s been talking to her for about an hour, and she seems like a nice person, but this is. . . To her, he’ll be a nice fuck. Hopefully. To him, this is life-changing. 

He finds the three of them quickly. Niall has his arms wrapped around Louis from behind, swaying them back and forth while Louis bites on his straw, and Liam is talking to them about something. Harry stands next to him, feeling a little awkward. 

“What happened to that Quinn lady?” Liam asks, frowning. Harry introduced her to him when Liam came looking for his drink. 

“Um, we -- I was going to ask if it’d be fine if I took her back to ours?” he says, feeling so stupid. Liam grins, Niall cheers, and Louis just keeps biting on his straw. Harry shoots Louis a sympathetic look. “I could maybe ask her to leave before you guys get home so -- ”

“Harry, mate,” Niall says seriously. “Do not ask her to leave. Don’t fuck it up. Louis can sleep on the couch or with one of us, he’ll live.”

“Are you sure?” Harry asks, and Louis shrugs. 

“Doesn’t really matter to me,” he says. “So long as you have fun.”

Harry manages to hold back his grin until he’s weaving through the crowd, back to Quinn. He hopes to God this goes well. 

-

Like he was hoping for, Quinn isn’t exactly secretive about what she wants. She isn’t bossy, not at all, just. She knows what she wants. And Harry gives it to her, because that’s what he wants, too. At first, he’s unsure and nervous for a multitude of reasons, but after a while -- after he successfully goes down on her, more like -- he feels more sure of himself. He hasn’t forgotten how to be with a girl. He hasn’t forgotten how to be someone who isn’t Sam. 

It’s not just sex, it’s fun, kind of, in a relaxing, enjoyable type of way. She jokes around with him and eases his nerves, and she doesn’t rush him, and she is clear about what she wants while also leaving room for him to say yes or no. It’s not just a quick fuck like it was with Sam a lot of the time; with Sam, even if it was slower, more intimate sex, it didn’t feel like this. It didn’t feel so personal. Which is insane, because he was with Sam over half a decade and has known Quinn for not even half a day. 

When the boys get in, they’re loud and rowdy and Quinn’s on top of him, riding him slowly. She hesitates, and Harry shakes his head quickly, tells her not to worry about it. He doesn’t want this to end, and she must not either, because she grins and kisses him before continuing. 

The shame and guilt don’t make home in his heart until afterwards, when she’s tucked under his arm and breathing softly against his chest, sound asleep. He’s pretty sure that’s just how it’s going to be for him now. Sex has been tainted for him, and he can’t change it. He’s powerless, but that doesn’t mean he has to feel defeated. With Sam, and even with Louis, he couldn’t talk himself out of the shame or guilt so easily. He always felt like he had something to feel ashamed of or guilty for. But with Quinn. . . He can’t find a single aspect of tonight that would give warrant to those feelings. It doesn’t make them go away, but that makes it a lot less scary. 

He wakes only an hour after he’s managed to fall asleep to Quinn getting dressed. He’s a little sad to see her go, but he isn’t disappointed. Last night was good. Last night was all he needed. He sits up, and she smiles at him. 

“Promise I wasn’t going to leave without saying goodbye,” she says, straightening out her shirt. She stands from his bed and slides her underwear on, then her pants. While she’s putting on her heels, she says, “I had fun last night.”

He smiles warmly at that. “Me too.”

“Could do it again, if you wanted.”

He reaches for his phone, opens his contacts and hands her his phone. She types in her phone number, kisses him goodbye, and then she’s gone. He would have walked her out if he wasn’t naked. 

He’s laying back against his pillows, feeling good about himself, when Louis pushes open the door and heads to his bed. 

“Sorry,” Harry says, sitting up on his elbow. Louis is fixing up his blankets and pillows, trying to get comfortable. Gus comes in after him, jumping up on Harry’s bed like usual, and Harry’s reaches down to pet his head. 

“It’s fine,” Louis mumbles. “Your dog’s a bed hog, though.”

“Yeah,” Harry agrees fondly.

Louis gets under the blankets and faces away from Harry, so Harry lays back down, too. He’ll probably be able to fall asleep again. He’s trying to when Louis says, “I’m glad you had fun with her, Harry.”

“Thank you,” Harry says, and that’s that. Gus falls asleep first, and then Louis, and Harry eventually does himself as well.

-

Louis’ not exactly talking to him. He’s not _not_ talking to him either, it’s just. Different. 

Harry doesn’t even notice something is off until the following night. Between working and basking in the absolute afterglow of his night with Quinn, he doesn’t really realize it. And when he does, he hates it. Hates how he has to talk to Louis first if he wants to talk to him at all, hates how paranoid it makes him, hates how his brain thinks over and over and over again, _God, does he hate me? He hates me, doesn’t he?_

He puts up with it for three days. It’s making him anxious as all hell, and if Louis’ mad at him, it’s fine. They can figure it out. Harry just needs to be told what he did wrong in order to fix it. 

He wakes up to Louis accidentally shutting a drawer too loudly as he’s getting ready for work, and he just can’t take it anymore, so he sits up and asks, “Did I do something wrong?”

Louis frowns at him as he slides on his socks. “No. Why? You okay?”

“You’re mad at me,” he says quietly. “You’ve _been_ mad at me. For days now.”

Louis lets out a loud exhale before shaking his head. He grabs his shoes and Harry watches him put them on as he talks. “No, I’m not mad at you. For anything. I’ve just been thinking.”

“About?”

“Nothing all that important.”

“Louis,” Harry says, pained. “I’m -- what is it? Talk to me. I can’t take it thinking you’re mad at me. Just because you say you aren’t doesn’t mean you aren’t, so just -- tell me what I did wrong and I can fix it, okay?”

Louis sighs, his shoulders sagging, before looking at him. He looks serious, all the sudden. So Harry was right, he did do something to make him mad. Anxiety claws at his stomach. 

“I just. I don’t know. It’s weird, alright, seeing you be so happy after Quinn. Not that I’m not happy for you, because I am, H, I really am, just.” He stands up and grabs his coat. As he puts it on, he stares down as he fixes his zipper and says, “I am fully aware that I have stopped you from kissing me twice now, but it didn’t feel great watching you be with her. Or, like. . . hearing you.”

And that’s just shit, isn’t it. Harry finally did something that made him feel brave and happy, and now Louis’ saying he didn’t like it for some selfish reason. That’s not fair. At all. Especially when Harry would have more than happily spent that night with Louis instead of Quinn. 

“I feel like that’s not fair,” he says slowly. 

Louis nods instantly. “I know it’s not. That’s why I didn’t mention it. It’s my problem, yeah? Not yours. Forget about it.”

What a stupid thing to say. Harry can’t just _forget_ about it.

“I didn’t mean to make you feel bad,” he says, doing his best to keep tears out of his voice. He cries all the goddamn time, and it’s usually annoying, but Eric says he shouldn't beat himself up about it so he’s trying not to.

“You didn’t, Harry,” Louis says incredulously. “I am not making this about me. You and Quinn had a good night together, and that’s amazing, okay? I’m happy for you. I’m _proud_ of you. I hardly even know what’s going on in my head right now, so don’t worry about it. Seriously. I’ll. . . let you know if I figure it out, okay?”

“Sure,” Harry says, a little disoriented. If Louis’ not mad at him, that’s all he can ask for. He can’t ask Louis to have his shit figured out. That’d be, like, the most hypocritical thing he could possibly do. Harry’s the messiest person on planet earth; if Louis doesn’t know how he’s feeling, Harry can’t hold it against him or take it personally. For both of them, he has to try. 

So, he does. He does his best to completely pretend like Louis hadn’t even told him about it. _Forget_ about it, like Louis had said. And turns out, two weeks later and Niall’s very attractive mate named Max is one way he could help himself forget about it. 

It’s not a pub, for once. Well, that’s a lie. It doesn’t _start_ a pub. The four of them and Zayn go to someone named Ashton’s house, a mate of a mate’s of Niall’s. There’s a footy match going on that’s apparently a big deal. Liam and Louis have not shut up about it, and Harry wasn’t particularly fond of the idea of going to some random guy's house to do Guy Things but he didn’t want to be the odd one out. 

For the first two innings, Harry stays next to who he knows and sips on a grossly warm beer. He talks to Zayn quietly, about his girlfriend and art and literally anything else beside footy. It’s not that it’s boring, it’s just. He’s the type of guy who just wants to know what happened. He doesn’t need to see it. 

It’s the third inning when someone -- Ashton, Harry is pretty sure -- says, “Okay, how about we move to a bar? TVs are bigger and the beer is better.”

Zayn and Harry sigh quietly in their little corner. 

“I don’t feel like getting drunk tonight,” Harry whines in a whisper.

Zayn snorts. “Then don’t drink.”

“Yeah, then what the hell am I going to do with my hands?”

“True,” Zayn mumbles, and then Louis’ coming over to tell them he can drive them all. Harry and Zayn stand, following him. In the car, Louis drives while Liam refreshes Twitter to see any updates for the game. 

When they arrive, everyone rushes inside from their cars. Between that and the crowd, you’d think the pub was offering free drinks or something. Harry and Zayn hang back, and instead of crowing behind the group to get front-row of the TVs, they find a booth nearby where they can somewhat see the scoreboard and chat. 

Zayn’s telling him about his mum when he slowly stops talking. Harry, confused, follows his eyeline and turns around to find someone from Ashton’s house standing there, looking nervous.

“Oh,” he says. “Um, hi.”

“Hi,” the man says, “I’m Max. You’re Harry, right?” He pauses and then glances at Zayn, adding, “And Zayn.”

“Yeah,” Harry says, while Zayn just raises his glass in affirmation. 

Max nods and clears his throat. “Right, well. I was just heading to the bar and noticed your drink was empty. I was going to get a gin and tonic, did you want the same?”

At that, Harry’s body goes hot and he has to think a bit too hard about what an appropriate response would sound like. He’s pretty sure he’s never going to have anything gin related for the rest of his life. “Uh, just a Mojito please.”

“Yeah, ‘course. I’ll be right back.”

Max heads to the bar, and Harry keeps an eye on him. It’s hard with all the people blocking his view, but once the bartender starts making the Mojito, Harry doesn’t take his eyes off that drink. He’s ninety-percent nothing bad could happen with four people watching out for him, and he’s about thirty-percent sure Max wouldn’t do anything stupid like drug him, just. You can never be too careful. 

“Telling you right now,” Zayn says, “Niall told him that you’re available so he’s most definitely going to try and get in your pants.”

Harry scoffs quietly. “Niall’s trying to set me up on dates now?”

“Yeah. Liam, too.”

“Jesus,” Harry mumbles, shaking his head. He’s not upset about that necessarily, just. It’s whatever. He thought he was doing alright with the whole moving on timeline, but apparently not. All it is is Liam and Niall wanting him to be happy, though. He can’t knock that. 

Max comes back with the Mojito and gin and tonic and sits across from Zayn and Harry, effortlessly sliding into conversation with them. Harry wouldn’t say he’s uncomfortable, just. No, he is. He’s uncomfortable. But not because of anything Max has done, so he writes it off as him being paranoid. 

An hour or so later after the match is over -- Louis and Liam’s team won, thank goodness, Harry couldn’t take them all being pouty -- Niall comes over to them and says everyone who isn’t obnoxiously drunk is allowed to come back to theirs for a few more hours. Despite Harry’s growing need for some alone time, he agrees easily enough because it’s not just his flat and he can just hang out in his room, anyway. Zayn taps out, so they take him home before heading back to the flat, where only three or four others join them. 

Harry has two beers before deciding to head to the bedroom so he can relax. He’s not very drunk, not at all, so he has time before he crashes asleep. As he scoots past them in the kitchen, he squeezes Louis and Liam’s shoulders before heading to the bathroom, and then his room. He’s in there for only ten minutes, maybe fifteen, with earbuds in as he reads from a book he nicked from work, when the door opens and Max enters. 

Harry suppresses a sigh as he sits up and tries to be polite. Max is clearly feeling awkward, and it makes Harry that much uncomfortable. So why he agrees to let Max sit down on his bed is beyond him. He just doesn’t want to seem rude. 

Sometime after a half-hearted conversation about _The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe_ and some of the least impressive attempts at flirting Harry has ever seen, Max finally leans in and kisses Harry, and honestly, for a few seconds, Harry’s relieved that they’re done talking. He kisses him for a bit, but after about a minute or two, Harry realizes that he’s not all that into this. 

There’s so many things that don’t feel right here.

First of all, the dynamic between Harry and Max compared to Harry and Quinn is all wrong. Quinn had this way of making Harry feel relaxed and safe, while also making him feel like an equal. It was probably the first time he’s had sex in ages that he didn’t feel like he was just following someone’s orders. With Quinn, almost immediately, Harry was intrigued. With Max. . . Harry’s pretty sure he’s not even there yet. And that’s all the less complicated bits. 

Louis’ voice, the insecurity laced through it while he told Harry that he didn’t know what he was feeling, keeps playing through his head. Harry doesn’t want to hurt Louis, at all. But then, at the same time, Niall wanted Harry to get on with Max. He wanted them to -- date, maybe, or maybe just to have sex. He doesn’t want to disappoint anyone. 

With Quinn, he didn’t start thinking about the complicated parts until after it was over. And now here Harry is, slightly panicking because he doesn’t want to go through with this but also doesn’t really know how to say that. He knows, he _knows_ , he could just say no, thanks, or just no, or anything else that would communicate he’s not feeling it, and Max would stop. Max seems nice and eager to please, which is probably part of the problem here. (He hopes, anyway. Harry will be crushed if his ability to be intimate with men has been stolen from him.)

It’s not until Max tugs on the bottom of his shirt that Harry decides that he’s got to put a stop to this if he can. He pulls back slightly, eyes moving from Max to somewhere else back to Max repeatedly. After a few seconds, he clears his throat and says, “Um. Would it be okay if -- I was actually just about to go to bed. If -- is it okay, if we, like, rain checked this or something? Or, like, I don’t -- ”

“Yeah, mate, that’s totally fine. That’s -- shit, sorry. I didn’t really ask.” He laughs self-consciously and rubs at the back of his neck, Harry tries his best at a smile. 

“It’s fine,” he says. “Just, like, Thanks for understanding.”

Max stands up from the bed and suddenly looks like he’s completely lost. He looks so guilty and a little embarrassed, and Harry feels bad, too. He didn’t want to make him feel bad. He doesn’t want to be someone who can’t have a good night with someone whenever they feel like. On the other hand, though, he doesn’t want to be the person who doesn’t say no to something on the off chance of pleasing someone else, either. 

“Night, mate,” Max says, motioning to the door. “I’m just gonna. . .”

“Yeah. Yeah, thanks. Night, Max.”

Max leaves, shutting the door behind him, and Harry exhales loudly. His lips feel swollen and tingly, and he rubs them with the back of his hand subconsciously. Almost immediately, he feels like he’s done something worth feeling ashamed and wrong for, and he’s so fucking relived that he stopped it when he did. If he had gone through with it, he would be feeling about a million times worse than this. 

He’s lying in bed, staring at the ceiling and running through his last morning with Sam again when the door opens. Harry’s heart lurches, thinking it’s Max and that he’s changed his mind about agreeing to Harry’s no, but it’s just Louis. He’s got Gus slumped in one of his arms, looking mildly uncomfortable, and a beer in the other. 

“Hey,” he says, letting Gus down on Harry’s bed. He comes towards Harry while making soft little grunting noises, and Harry strokes down his back. “Max wasn’t in here long. Just. . . everything good?”

“I don’t know,” he says truthfully, and then he cringes and how melodramatic that sounds. “Well, yes. I’m fine. Just thinking.”

“About nothing good, I’m assuming.”

Harry offers him a tired smile. Louis returns it before crawling into bed next to Harry and Gus and letting out a loud sigh. He reaches behind Harry to set the beer can down and says, “You want to talk about it?”

Harry shakes his head. He has therapy in two days, he can just talk about it then. For now, lying here with Gus and Louis is enough. 

Louis falls asleep about fifteen minutes later, just after Harry slots himself behind him and curls his arms around Louis’ middle. For the rest of the night, Harry thinks and thinks and thinks. For the most part, it’s nothing but negative, and then slowly, he starts to relax a little bit. The last coherent thought he thinks before falling asleep is that, surely being intimate with men won’t be a major problem for him if he likes to be this close to Louis. 

-

Eric is equal parts annoying and helpful. Annoying because half the stuff he tells Harry, Harry already knows he should be doing, and helpful because he’s there to constantly encourage Harry to do those things he knows he should be doing but puts off anyway. 

Harry tells him about Max. About how he wasn’t feeling it and almost went through with it anyway. About his fears of having sex with men being impossible, and about how he’s not sure if that’s true because of how he feels about Louis. 

And then Eric smiles. 

“That’s the first time you’ve truly admitted out loud that you have feelings for Louis,” Eric tells him, and Harry immediately backtracks, says that he didn’t mean it like that, that Eric is just looking too far into what he said. And then Eric gives him this -- look, this tired, encouraging look that makes Harry look away and suppress a sigh. 

There’s no point anymore in denying that he does feel something for Louis, is there? He’s just getting in his own way at this point. The Sam problem has mostly been taken care of; that being Sam himself, not the damage Sam has caused. Harry feels okay about entertaining the idea of a new relationship. Maybe he shouldn’t, but there’s something soothing about the idea of being tied to someone. He needs to feel needed. And Quinn proves that he can be intimate with someone again. Max suggests maybe not. Louis. . . Louis would be okay with either, he’s pretty sure. 

But Louis has been tip-toeing around this just as much as he has, and that worries him. There is no concrete proof that Louis will want him like that, and that’s. . . That rejection will send him flying back to Sam, he knows it will, and he’s not ready for that again. Not now, not ever. 

After he says all that, Eric responds with, “You can’t live in fear,” and, “Do you think Louis would want to stop being friends with you, even if he wasn’t interested in you romantically?” and, “I think you owe it to yourself to find out.”

“You know what I think?” Harry says, less than enthused. “I think you need to stop knowing what the right things to say are all the time. It’s exhausting.”

Eric doesn’t say anything to that, just leaves Harry be with his thoughts for a few minutes. Eventually, Harry sighs again and looks at him.

“And how do you know that it will be any different with Louis?” he says. “We talk about it like. Like Sam was the problem. But what if it was me? What if. . . what if I ruin Louis like I did with Sam?”

Eric has to take a deep breath before he responds to that one. 

“You can’t drive someone to commit such acts of abuse,” he says slowly. “Sam acting that way, most of the time unprovoked, is not a reflection on you. It’s only a reflection on him and his shortcomings. And Harry. We’ve talked about this. About how Sam probably viewed you as an easy target, and how he started taking advantage of you from day one.”

“I don’t think I could do it again,” Harry whispers, staring down at his hands. “I don’t think I could deal with Louis turning out to be like him, too. I don’t -- I don’t know what the hell I’d do. Where I’d go.”

“It’s natural to doubt people’s intentions, but Louis’ been in your life for a long time. It’s okay to trust your gut.”

Finally talking about this in a way that feels real is completely terrifying, and it’s causing all sorts of terrifying scenarios to bubble up inside of him. 

“What if my mum doesn’t like him as much as she did Sam?”

“Then it’s a good thing she’s not the one in the relationship,” Eric says easily. He hesitates before saying, “Have you told your mum that you aren’t with Sam anymore?”

Harry shakes his head, feeling kind of numb about that.

“I think it’s time to tell her, Harry.”

“She’s going to hate me.”

Eric shakes his head. “She’ll understand. And if you tell her the truth -- ”

“She won’t believe me,” Harry interrupts. “I know she won’t. She’ll think that I’ve officially fucking lost it or something. I can’t take that.”

“She’ll believe you, Harry. She’ll believe you just like everyone else in your life has.” He pauses, and then, “And if she doesn’t, I think knowing for sure will be better than being scared of the unknown.”

“I don’t know. I’ll think about it.”

“Okay. That’s the first step.”

There’s so many other things Harry wants to ask. What if Louis thinks he’s too weak? What if -- what if Harry ruined any chance at Louis finding him attractive by telling him that he was sexually assaulted? What if he gets too scared to tell Louis that he’s not comfortable during something sexual, and he ruins everything? What if Harry ruins _everything?_

There’s no point in asking any of that, though, because Eric will just tell him that he’ll never know until he finds out for himself. 

-

The following day, Harry attempts to speak openly to Louis, but he can’t figure out what he wants to say properly, he’s too defensive out of fear, and his questions aren’t the ones he wanted to ask. They come across as accusatory and like he’s already deciding they wouldn’t work, and Louis looks lost the entire time. 

Harry knows it’s not going to be a good conversation when the first thing that comes out of his mouth is, “Could you ever even want to be with someone like me?” It’s so small and pathetic and self-pitying that there’s no way a rational, mature conversation could stem from it. And now he’s got Louis looking at him, confused and concerned. 

“What do you mean, H?”

It’s two o’clock in the morning, they’re both in their own beds, Gus is snoring at Louis’ feet for once, and the only light in the room comes from Louis’ fairy lights. This wasn’t the right situation to have this conversation. 

“Do you -- don’t you think I’m, like, weak? And that what happened makes me, like, undesirable or something? I don’t know. I don’t. . . I don’t know.”

“Absolutely not, Harry.” He sounds horrified. “You’re not weak. And you aren’t less than because of what happened to you. I would never think differently about you because of that.”

Harry barely lets him finish before he asks, “But what if I could, like, just never have sex ever again? What if I couldn’t?”

“I don’t think that’s true, but if it was, then it isn’t the end of the world. Sex isn’t everything.”

“And what if I’m just a terrible boyfriend? What if -- what if I’ve been the problem this entire time, and I won’t ever be able to have a good relationship, and what if -- I don’t know. What if I ruin everything?”

He’s panicking, he realizes stupidly late. His words are jumbled and don’t make any sense. It probably wasn’t smart to have this conversation after spending so much time laying in bed, trying to force himself to gain the courage to speak. 

“God,” he mumbles, running a hand down his face. “I think I need to go to bed.”

“I think so, too, mate.”

Harry nods to himself before turning towards the wall. He closes his eyes, trying to force his thoughts to stop racing. He shouldn’t have sprung that onto himself right now. Him or Louis. Bless Louis for being so goddamn patient. 

After a few minutes, Louis says softly, “I don’t think you’d be a bad boyfriend, if that means anything. I think you’re too kind and thoughtful and loving to be a bad boyfriend. To anyone.”

“Same. About you, I mean,” is the only thing that Harry can think to say that doesn’t sound entirely stupid and pathetic.

Neither of them say anything for the rest of the night, even though that failed attempt at a conversation is undoubtedly swirling through both of their heads. 

-

It takes an entire month of therapy appointments in which too much time is spent on going through each and every possible outcome of admitting the truth to his mum for him to finally make the call. He has to be honest with her. He has to. She’ll already be so sad that he waited so long to tell her that they broke up. And maybe if he is honest with her, he can gain the courage to go back home for a weekend and spend time with his family. 

He goes on a walk with Gus one morning, walks to a nearby park and sits on a park bench. For about ten minutes, he waits, and then he finally gains the courage to call her. 

“Hiya, baby.” She sounds so pleased. “How are you?”

“Okay. Do you have time to talk?”

“Yes, of course. About what?”

“About a lot of things.”

She sounds so soothing when she says, “I’m here, love. I have all day to listen.”

He takes a deep breath and tightens his grip on Gus’ leash. He can do this, he can. All of Eric’s lame platitudes run through his head, and they help him gain the courage and to remain calm. “Me and Sam broke up again. About seven months ago. And I think. . . I think it’s for good this time.”

“Oh.” She sounds shocked. “I thought you two were doing good. What happened, love?”

He leans down, sets his elbows on his knees. “Mum,” he says, voice wretched. “I wanted us to work out. I really did. For me and for him and for you. I wanted us to work out, but it just -- it was impossible.”

“Why do you say that?”

“He’s different than he seems, Mum,” he says. “It’s, like. He was so nice and loving sometimes, and then others. . . He was so cruel, Mum. So mean. Over nothing, all the time.”

“What are you saying, Harry?” She doesn’t sound soft anymore, she sounds demanding and irritated. When Harry doesn’t respond at first, too scared that the anger is directed at him, she says, “Harry. Baby. What are you saying? Just help me understand.”

One day, this will probably be easier to talk about. Today is not that day. 

“He yelled at me a lot,” he croaks out. “And he -- Mum. He’d hit me, like. He’s just really mean, I don’t -- I’m sorry.”

“Don’t you dare apologize,” she tells him sternly. “Don’t do that, baby. Don’t -- are you okay? Are you safe?”

“Yes. Yeah, I’m fine. I’ve been staying with the boys again.”

“Good. Good, baby, that’s. . . good. And he’s let you be?”

“For the most part, yeah.”

She lets out a mean laugh. “Oh, once I tell his mother, he’s going to wish -- ”

“Don’t,” Harry interrupts immediately. “Don’t tell his mum. Don’t tell anyone. And don’t call him. Please. I don’t want him getting angry with me. He knows where I live, and I don’t want him having any more of a reason to be pissed at me.”

“But Harry.”

“I know, Mum. I know it’s hard. But you can’t. For me, you can’t.”

“My poor love,” she says around a sigh. “I’m so sorry. I thought he was so good for you, and here he was, being so cruel. I had no idea. I promise, sweetheart, I had no idea.”

“I know. I know. I don’t blame you, for anything.”

“You should. What the hell was I thinking, introducing you to someone like that? I thought -- God, I’m your _mother,_ I’m supposed to _know_.”

Harry smiles sadly to himself. “It didn’t start happening until I was three and a half hours away from you, in an entirely different city. You had no way of knowing.”

They talk for a long forty-five minutes. It starts to get hot, so Harry moves him and Gus to a shadier spot, and Gus stretches at his feet. After Harry says he has to head home to get ready for work (he doesn’t work today, but he doesn’t want to talk anymore), Anne makes him promise that he’ll call again soon. He does easily, and she reluctantly lets him go. 

Harry doesn’t cry until halfway on the walk back home, and it’s out of relief more than anything. 

-

Louis’ the only one home with him today, and Harry doesn’t know if he decided to call today Anne because of that, or if it was a coincidence. Either way, after he gets home, makes sure Gus has fresh water and changes into more comfortable clothes, he sits with Louis at the kitchen table. 

He’s quiet for a few minutes, and then, “Do you have any weed on you?”

Louis glances up from his phone and scoffs quietly, his mouth quirking at the sides in a smile. He sets his coffee down before crossing his arms. “Why, you want some?”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe,” Louis mimics, teasing. He shrugs a shoulder. “I don’t right now, but I can get some from Zayn today if you want.”

“If you don’t mind,” Harry says. It’s just. He wants some sort of release right now, something to wipe his brain clean, and he is so sick of getting drunk so often, so weed is the next option. Eric would probably frown at that and tell him to read a book or exercise, but whatever. 

“Yeah, that’s fine. I’ll call him in, like, an hour.”

“Okay, thanks.”

Until then, Harry makes himself busy with some housekeeping things that need to be taken care of. He offers to go with Louis to Zayn’s, but Louis says it’s fine and heads out by himself. Once he comes back with two freshly rolled joints, it’s obvious he’s already smoked a bit before coming back home. 

“Shouldn’t smoke and drive, you know,” Harry reprimands half-heartedly as he takes the joint from Louis and sits on the couch. Louis rolls his eyes and motions for Harry to hold it properly, and once Harry has it held right, Louis lights it for him. 

Even though he’s smoked his fair share of joints, he can never not cough like he’s choking up a lung after the first drag. Louis coughs a bit, maybe twice, before leveling himself out and looking at Harry, equal parts fond and amused. 

“Shut up,” Harry mumbles once he’s calmed down. He wipes his nose with the back of his hand and sniffs quietly. “I have asthma, you know. It’s rude, making fun of me.”

“Sure, love.”

They smoke in comfortable silence for about five minutes until Louis nudges him with his foot. Harry looks away from Gus, who is sleeping peacefully on his dog bed in the kitchen, to Louis. 

“Why’d you want to smoke, anyway?”

Harry shrugs. “Why not?”

“Because I’ve lived with you for a while, and the few times you’ve smoked with us, you looked like you’d rather be doing anything else.”

“Rude,” he says passively. “Dunno. Told my mum about Sam today and didn’t feel like getting drunk, so.”

“Oh. Did she take it okay?”

Harry shrugs. “Don’t really know. Don’t really care, either. It’s. . . it’s whatever. I think she believes me, but if she doesn’t, I can’t really control that, can I?”

“I highly doubt she wouldn’t believe you.”

“Sam’s quite charming,” Harry says quietly. Before, Harry wouldn’t have doubted his place over Sam in his mum’s life. Now, after she believed Sam about Harry having mental illnesses that he swore up and down he didn’t, that doesn’t feel so certain anymore. 

Louis presses his foot more firmly against his thigh. “Do you still miss him?”

“I will always miss him,” he says automatically. It’s something he knows for certain. “I will always love him. I will always feel like I owe him something that I don’t. I’ve already accepted that.”

“But if he said and did all the right things, do you think you’d go back to him?”

Harry nods slowly. He takes another long drag before responding. “I think he’s made it impossible for me not to,” he admits hesitantly. “I don’t want to. I don’t think I will. But I’ve already done it once, and I’m not the strongest person, so.”

“I don’t know why you always say that,” Louis says, sounding confused. “You’re not weak. Do you think a weak person would be able to spend day after day dealing with what you did, for years? Do you know how much strength that takes?”

“I stayed because I was scared. And delusional.”

“And after everything you’ve been through, you’re still not defeated. You’re still trying. You haven’t given up on yourself. I think that’s, like, the definition of strength.”

Harry smiles thinly at him. “And I think that it’s going to take a long time for me to believe that myself.”

“And that’s fine. It doesn’t matter what I think, does it. It’s about you.”

“Eric always says that I’m the only one who can get through it,” he says. “That, like, I can’t rely on anybody else to fix it for me.”

“He’s right, you know.”

Harry nods. “Yeah. I know.”

-

Two hours later, they’re exceptionally more high and laying on their bedroom floor with Gus. Liam got home a little bit ago and made a fuss that his sisters were coming over and they got the whole flat smelling like weed. Harry actually felt kind of bad, but Louis just shrugged and said, “Oopsies.”

“Who do you think will move out first?” Harry asks randomly, staring at the ceiling. He wishes it was darker outside so they could turn on the fairy lights. He’s pretty sure that would fit the aesthetic they’re clearly going for here. 

Louis answers almost immediately. “You.”

“What?” Harry asks, sitting up on his elbows. “Why?”

Louis sits up on his elbows, too, and he knocks his shoulder against Harry’s. “‘Cause you have the most goals out of us, I think. Like. Me and Niall and Liam are all okay with where we are. I mean, Liam wants a girlfriend more than he wants to breathe, but.”

“I just want to have my shit together. Don’t see how that involves leaving you lot.”

“I don’t know,” Louis says, shrugging. “I hope you don’t. It’s nice having you around.”

Harry smiles. “I like being around.”

And then Louis leans in closer, close enough for him to be too close for anything other than a kiss. He doesn’t do anything for a moment. Neither of them do anything. Then, softly, Louis asks, “Can I kiss you?”

Harry answers him by leaning forward and pressing their lips together, because if he said anything out loud, it’d come out far too desperate and excited. 

It takes a minute for them to find their footing. At first, all Harry can think is, _this is new, Louis kissed me first,_ and _God, of course the first time we’re intoxicated that I don’t make a move, he does_. Louis’ probably thinking something else, something more complicated. For both of them, their thoughts quiet after a short while, and then Harry’s blindly grabbing for Louis. His hand lands on his hip and he squeezes gently, and Louis responds by setting a hand on the back of his neck and pulling him closer. 

Maybe it’s because they’re high instead of drunk or sober. Maybe it’s because Louis is finally on board with this. Maybe it’s something that was just going to happen and this just so happened to be the moment that it finally felt like it meant something. Whatever it is, it’s nice and it’s right and it’s so much better than it was with Quinn, and so, so much better than it was with Max. Harry is almost worked up to the point that he’s going to try and escalate this when Louis pulls away abruptly. 

Before Harry can ask, Louis says, “I’m not making out with you with your dog staring at us.”

“He’s not -- ” And, well. Gus is looking at them. Harry wouldn’t call it _staring,_ but he _is_ looking at them. Harry reaches over to pet the top of his head, and Gus snorts. “He’s just keeping an eye on me.”

“I’m tired anyway,” Louis says, sitting up. For a moment, Harry thinks that moment wasn’t really a moment at all. And then Louis lightly grabs his wrist and tugs at him. “Come on. It’s not too late to take a nap. I think your creepy dog is tired, too.”

“Hey,” Harry warns, and Louis grins before kissing the top of Harry’s hand and then Gus’ head. Louis stands, and then so does Harry, and Gus follows close behind. They all make their way to Louis’ bed, and Louis is obviously a bit irritated (but also so, so fond) by the way Gus immediately chooses his spot to be between Louis and Harry. He doesn’t move him, though, and he smiles at the way Harry pats Gus’ belly.

Harry’s counting Louis’ breaths, waiting for them to level out, when he falls asleep himself. 

-

In the morning, Harry’s racing heart is what wakes him up. He’s used to this by now, used to the remnants of a nightmare that didn’t quite dig deep enough for him to remember what they were about. He’s even used to waking up to Louis next to him, because they’ve cuddled enough for that to be a regular thing. But it’s different, isn’t it, because Louis kissed him. _Louis_ kissed _him_. 

And when Louis wakes up, he kisses him again. And again. And then makes another comment that Gus is ruining the moment, because he’s got his paw jabbing against his stomach and is still lodged between them. 

“I have to get ready for work, anyway,” Harry says, sitting up. He can’t stop smiling, God, for someone who has been fucking things up with Louis for months now, he sure is quick to collect the rewards of this possibility working out. “I’ll see you when I get back, yeah?”

Louis nods. “Yeah. I mean, we _do_ live together.”

Harry rolls his eyes and gets out of bed, but by the time he’s looking at himself in the mirror, he’s smiling again. 

-

Harry knows he has codependency issues. He knows that now. Before Eric told him that, he would never have thought it was something he struggled with, but it makes sense. Being with Sam gave him a purpose, gave him a role he knew how to play. He liked how happy he could make someone else, someone he loved. But if he didn’t think he was too codependent before, starting something with Louis would surely be enough to tell him that. 

It’s not really an issue, that doesn’t feel like the right word. It’s just. After Harry and Louis start to properly kiss and cuddle and venture onto other things, Harry becomes increasingly happier. Happier, lighter, bubblier, more hopeful. And it doesn’t feel like a problem, not when it’s all good things, but it sort of is. It’s not good for him to place his entire self-worth into if someone else likes him or not. He knows how that goes for him, and he can’t repeat the same things. For himself, and for this relationship gradually strengthening between them, he can’t just fall into being just Louis’ boyfriend. For both of them, he needs to be Harry, who happens to also be Louis’ boyfriend. 

It’s hard. It isn’t just something he can stop, is it, so he tries to be mindful of when he’s putting too much stock into Louis and too much weight into his words. That’s all he can really ask of himself, and it’s more than he was able to do when he was with Sam. 

Louis isn’t Sam. Louis will never become Sam. Logically, Harry knows this. But as the days collect, when it’s a month that they’re kissing and flirting and doing more, and then it’s two months, and when they’re approaching three, Harry finally starts to really _know_ that. To accept it. He has to put down his guard, because with Louis, he doesn’t need to have one. It’s difficult. Beyond difficult. The last time he put down his guard with Sam, well. Everything went to shit. 

But Louis isn’t Sam. Louis will never become Sam. 

He has to keep telling himself that. And he has to keep telling himself that he’ll never be who he was back then, either. That Louis is Louis, and he won’t become like Sam, and that Harry won’t ever go back to feeling so fucking blinded with fear that he doesn’t have time to focus on anything else. Like this, when he’s not constantly flinching away from something, Harry is able to see what love actually looks like. What it actually feels like. How beautiful it really is. 

It’s onto the third month that he overhears Louis refer to him as his boyfriend to his mum on the phone, and he bursts into a grin and his stomach twists, in a good way. 

When they have sex, it’s very rarely anything other than amazing. Sometimes when Harry’s too far into his own head, fear lingers in the corner of his brain, but that’s it. Sex becomes a good thing again. A really, really good thing. 

And God, having someone to talk about with your friends and coworkers and the cashier at the supermarket who asks who the flowers are for, who you aren’t embarrassed of or who doesn’t make you feel embarrassed about yourself, it’s -- God. It’s something else. It doesn’t feel like he’s carrying around this lie anymore. It’s more like a secret, but a good secret. A secret that he keeps because he wants to. 

The boys aren’t weird about it at all. They like to make jokes about them, but it’s all in good fun. And when Harry tells Gemma and his mum, they’re both so happy for him. They don’t tell him that he’s moving on fast or invested in this relationship too quickly or that he’s being impulsive, which are all things he’s desperately afraid of. They just tell him to be careful, and that they want to meet him soon. 

Harry wants them to meet him soon, too. 

-

“I thought I would be terrified of dating. I thought I’d be, like, scared of whoever I was with, no matter what. And I’m. . . I’m wary of things, I am. I’m probably too passive with him still. But I’m not scared of him, not really. And I didn’t think that would be possible, not after everything.”

Eric smiles at him. “It’s most likely because you gave yourself time to heal before moving on,” he tells him. “That’s a good thing, though.”

“It’s going to sound stupid, but, like.” Harry glances at his hands, tangles his fingers together. He still has Sam’s ring on, which probably goes against everything he’s saying today, but Louis tells him that it doesn’t matter. That it’s basically Harry’s now, anyway. He doesn’t make him feel bad for it. “I didn’t know you could feel like this in a relationship. Like, I thought there was always supposed to be some struggle.”

“Sometimes there will be. It won’t always be smooth-sailing. But it’s not supposed to feel like a constant struggle, no. When they say relationships take sacrifice and work, they don’t mean it’s supposed to be painful.”

“What if we break up?”

Eric shakes his head. “You’ve only been together for six months now. You’ve been doing well. Don’t start thinking about that. But if you did, you’d be okay. You’d get through it.”

Harry swallows thickly as he twirls the ring around his finger. It’s six months today, actually. They’re going out on a date after this. A proper date; Louis’ taking him out to the shops, and afterwards, a fancy dinner. He’s outside in the parking lot right now, waiting for him to finish up. 

“Think about what you deserve,” Eric says slowly, like he always does when Harry’s struggling to accept things for what they are. 

“To be happy,” Harry says carefully. It all seems too easy when it’s put down into words. “To be happy with Louis.”

“Yes, you do.”

“I want to call Sam so badly,” Harry blurts out randomly. He told himself he wasn’t going to bring this up today, not when Louis is waiting out for him in the parking lot. Not when he’s supposed to go out and have fun after this. But it’s just. He’s had to stop himself far too many times from reaching out to Sam. It’s driving him mad; he’s happy, and he doesn’t want Sam over Louis, so why does he want to call him so badly?

“Have you?”

“No, but I want to,” Harry says. “I really, really want to. I want to know if he’s seeing anybody.”

“Do you think he’d be honest with you?”

“Of course not. But I want to know.”

Eric frowns. “I think we both know that calling him wouldn’t be beneficial to you.”

“I know,” Harry says, nodding hurriedly. He twirls the ring on his finger one last time before firmly placing it back where it belongs. “I know. I don’t -- I won’t. I wouldn’t do that to Louis. Or myself. Just. I don’t know.”

“It’s natural to think about him. It’s human nature to wonder.”

“Yeah.”

Maybe Harry can just brush it off as that. He has to, for at least tonight. 

-

They hold hands and eat too many pastries. At one of the shops, they both get roped into buying some healing stones; a clear quartz stone for Harry to ‘relieve inner pain’ and ‘protect against negativity’ and red amethyst for Louis to ‘bring out the courage’ in his heart. They’re both pretty sure the stones aren’t even real, but Louis says it couldn’t hurt. 

Still full from the pastries, they sit on a bench and eat ice cream. They people-watch together, making idle commentary about their clothes and their kids and their pets. It’s reassuring. It’s peaceful. 

They buy stupid knick knacks and ridiculously expensive clothes neither of them need, just because they want to. With their bags and hurting backs and feet, they find a hill to sit on until their dinner reservations and just sit quietly. Louis stares at the sky, Harry stares at Louis. Eventually, Louis notices and looks at him. 

“What?”

Harry leans forward and rests his chin on Louis’ shoulder. “I have had a better time with you in six months than I did with him in over six years.”

Louis presses a gentle kiss to his forehead and pulls him closer, so that Harry is cuddled into his side. Harry feels stupidly close to tears for no good reason, so he’s thankful for it. For a few minutes, they’re silent as Louis strokes over his hair and Harry wills away the tears. 

To break the silence and because he needs to say it, even though he didn’t want to be cheesy by doing it on an anniversary, Harry says, “I love you, Louis. Like. Proper love you.”

Louis’ arms tighten around him. “I love you, too. Properly.”

“Just want to stay here,” Harry whispers into his shoulder, snuggling closer to him. And he means for only the time being, but they stay there for hours. They miss their reservation time, and Louis says it’s okay, that he’d rather be here with Harry, and that he’s too full for dinner, anyway. 

Sam would have freaked out on him, calling him lazy and selfish. He probably would have slapped him or something, too; there’s not very many people near them. Louis holds him and talks to him about small things, like Frank at work and the book Harry’s reading and Gus. 

Harry tries so hard not to be mad at himself for staying with Sam for so long, but moments like this make it nearly impossible. 

It feels like he’s learned to be loved and to love in such a short amount of time. He looks forward to what else he’ll learn. What they’ll learn, together. 

-

He calls Sam a week later, when he’s home alone and laying on the couch with Gus. It’s just. . . he feels guilty. Really guilty. It feels like he’s betraying Sam by being with Louis, and betraying Louis by feeling like that. As he waits for Sam to answer, he closes his eyes and presses his cheek against the couch pillow. 

“I haven’t heard from you in so long,” is Sam’s hello. “Was starting to get worried. Thought maybe you were actually done with me.”

There’s no way that Sam is in a serious relationship yet if that’s how he answers the phone. Maybe he’s slept with some people, but there’s no way he’s found someone else. If he had, that would have been the first thing he gloated about. It makes Harry sad for him. 

“I am,” Harry says, voice barely about a whisper. “That’s why I called. I had to call you.”

There’s a pause, and then, “If you felt like you had to call me, clearly you aren’t done with me. Don’t be stupid.”

“I’m with somebody else now, Sam. I’m -- that’s why I called.”

He holds his breath, absolutely terrified. It was a bad idea, calling. But he didn’t have the strength to talk himself out of it.

“Yeah, right. Bullshit.”

Harry forces himself to exhale. “I am. Are you? I mean, I hope you have found someone else. Someone who you can be kind to. Really, Sam, I -- ”

“They’ll leave you,” Sam says, sounding urgent. “They’ll leave you so fucking fast, and then what? And then what are you going to do?”

“It’s already been six months. I don’t think he’s going to leave me.”

“I bet he doesn’t take care of you like I did. You still don’t have a car, do you? How many hours a week are you working, huh?”

“That’s not important.”

“Bulllshit.”

He sounds scared. Actually, genuinely terrified. Harry wishes he was cold enough to find some sort of satisfaction out of that, but he isn’t. 

“I want you to find someone else,” Harry says, voice wobbling. “I want -- Sam. I want you to be happy. Please, find something that makes you happy. Please.”

“ _You_ made me happy, Harry. What the _fuck_.”

Harry swallows back tears. “No, I didn’t. I can’t. We were miserable. Both of us were.”

“Don’t make me do something stupid, Harry. Don’t -- don’t do that. Come back home. Come -- I’ll do it, I swear to God. I’ll kill myself. And then you’ll realize how much you need me after I’m already dead. And then what will you do, huh?”

God, this is exhausting. Harry doesn’t know how he handled this for so long. All he wants is for Sam to be better. To get better. To find something in his life that he thinks is worth his effort. Maybe that just doesn’t exist for people like Sam. Harry thinks that’s unfair, but maybe it’s true. 

“I’ve been going to therapy,” Harry says instead of acknowledging anything he just said. “It sounds stupid, but it helps. I swear it helps. I think it could help you.”

“Jesus Christ, Harry. If you’re going to a fucking quack, of course you think you’ve figured it all out. They’re lying to you.”

“They’re not,” Harry says calmly. “Just think about it.”

“Fuck you. I swear to fucking God, I’ll do it tonight. I’ll kill myself tonight if you aren’t home by then.”

“I already am home, Sam. Call your mum or something, okay? Or maybe your dad. I think your dad would know how to help you. If you’re honest with people, Sam, it -- ”

“He’ll realize how fucking pathetic you are eventually, you know that? He’ll see how weak you are. How stupid and needy and pathetic.”

Harry stays silent. 

“When are you going to start making up lies about him, huh? When are you going to start claiming he hit you? That poor fucking bastard probably has no idea what he’s gotten himself into. Have you accused him of rape yet? No, that comes later in the relationship, right? That -- ”

“Goodbye, Sam,” Harry interrupts, not allowing himself to listen to that. Sam keeps talking, but Harry hangs up the phone and blocks his number yet again. 

Afterwards, he doesn’t feel any better. That didn’t really accomplish anything, did it. But it still feels right, somehow. 

-

Louis isn’t mad at him about the phone call.

At first, Harry isn’t even planning on telling him. It doesn’t seem relevant to anything, except that it is. It takes him only a few minutes of being around Louis after he comes home from work for Harry to decide that he has to tell him. Not telling him would be hiding it because he was scared, and he has no reason to be scared of Louis. Louis isn’t Sam, and Harry isn’t who he was with Sam anymore. 

He waits until they’re alone, which is before bed. Harry sits in Louis’ bed, propped up against the pillows, until Louis comes back from brushing his teeth and slides in next to him. He kisses the side of Harry’s head and pets Gus’ tummy, and as he does something on his phone, Harry takes a quiet breath. 

“I called Sam today,” he says slowly, looking forward instead of at Louis. “Um. We talked a little bit. Just thought I should tell you that.”

“Why’d you call him?”

He doesn’t sound mad, just confused. 

It takes Harry a second to work through the tears to say, “I just want him to be okay, you know?” His voice only shakes slightly. Louis finds his hand and squeezes. “I just wanted to tell him, like. That I’ve moved on, and he needs to, too. I just want him to figure out what he needs to be happy.”

“Did he take it well?”

Harry smiles sadly and glances at Louis. “Of course not,” he says. “But I don’t regret calling him. I’m sorry if you don’t like it, though.”

“I don’t mind. Just be careful, okay?” He reaches up to run his fingers through Harry’s hair and smiles. “You’re too good to him, you know. Still. He doesn’t deserve to be happy.”

Harry shrugs a bit before leaning against Louis. Louis wraps his arm around his shoulders, holding him close, and they get the blankets sorted over them. Once Harry’s comfortable, his head pillowed on Louis’ chest, he says, “Maybe not. I don’t know. But I do know that he needs to figure himself out, or else he’ll just find someone else to hurt.” He presses his hand against Louis’ belly, needing the comfort. “Like. I had a chance to protect whoever he gets with next, and I didn’t take it. I didn’t go to the police. I just feel like I owe it to them to try to make him get help or something. I don’t know.”

“Don’t feel guilty for that,” Louis says quietly. “Please. You were traumatized, not thinking clearly. You made the decision that you thought was best for yourself at the time, and you shouldn’t beat yourself up over that.”

“I don’t know,” is all Harry says, because he really doesn’t have a clue how he feels about it. He doesn’t blame the people before him who didn’t go to the police, so it’s not fair to carry this guilt himself. Who knows what would have happened if he went to the police, anyway; he’d still be probably wrapped up in a trial, having to face Sam and lawyers and that hurt on a daily basis. He didn’t want that. He shouldn’t have had to pick between healing and battling a fight he wanted no part in. 

“I’m just going to sleep,” Harry says. “Thanks for not being mad about me calling him.”

“Nothing to be mad about, sweetheart,” Louis whispers. He rubs his hand over Louis’ shoulder, and Harry closes his eyes, tries to get his head to quiet down. His mind stays busy the entire night, but being next to Louis and Gus gets him through it. 

-

After that call, Harry starts losing the energy to blame himself for everything. He tried. He did his best, paid his dues, and now he doesn’t have to be ashamed of himself today. He’ll always, always be ashamed of who he was, but he’s not that person anymore. He can’t keep doing this, can’t keep having sex with Louis and enjoying it but still finding it in himself to feel guilty for it afterwards and wearing Sam’s ring and thinking that he can still somehow save Sam. Sam has had months to reflect, _months_ , and he couldn’t find it in himself to have a single mature conversation with Harry. Harry’s just one person, one trying, decent man. He can’t fix evil, not when he has such _good_ in front of him. 

Sam never did a goddamn thing for him. How is it that Harry is supposed to carry that guilt of not being able to be enough for him? Sam has a mum. A dad. Siblings. Himself. If he hasn’t been able to figure it out now, maybe he never will. Harry can’t keep fearing that Sam will do something to himself or someone else. He has no control over that, and he never has. He never has. 

It’s not that easy, getting over that guilt. It takes him a long time. And it’s correlated to how he’s doing with Louis, which Eric would probably frown at. The longer he feels like he has a tight grip on a happy, healthy relationship, the less he’s trying to frantically hold onto the remnants of a relationship that hurt him for no good reason. 

It’s not like he’ll ever forget what happened, or move on from it. Not all of his scars will heal, and he will never believe that it happened for a reason. He’ll never be free from that trauma, but that doesn’t mean he has to be prisoner to it, either. 

-

-

“Come on, get up.”

Harry glances up from a book that he took from Frank’s room to see Louis pulling two coats out of the closest and tossing them on the bed. Then two hats, then two pairs of gloves. Most of it is Harry’s, since they’re in Holmes Chapel for Christmas and Louis is a shit packer.

“Where are we going?” Harry asks, stretching his legs out. “It’s nearly nine, and we’re supposed to help my mum get a Christmas tree tomorrow morning.”

“Kept thinking what you said last night,” Louis says, still rummaging through the closets. He sounds distracted. “About the Christmas lights? I kept thinking about it.”

Harry blushes a bit, a little embarrassed as his drunken rambling from the night before echoes in his head. Someone had pulled out the wine, and Harry can’t be blamed for partaking in it. Before bed, Harry kept saying that he missed the fairy lights at their flat, about how they were pretty and helped him fall asleep. Somewhere along the lines, he admitted that they reminded him of the Christmas lights Sam took him to see on their first date, and that he was pretty sure that’s why they were so comforting to him. 

“Yeah,” Harry says slowly, still confused. 

“Talked to your mum about it,” Louis says, pulling out a leash. As soon as it’s pulled from the tub of Gus’ things, little feet come trotting down the hallway and into Harry’s room, and then Gus is there, sniffing at the leash and wagging his tail happily. “She said there’s a park nearby that has these -- these lights. Like, but not boring ones. And it’s not that same park you went to with Sam, she’s pretty sure.”

 _This_ is what it feels like to be taken care of. 

“Really?” Harry asks, a little breathless. 

“Yeah,” Louis tells him, turning to grin at him. “Yeah, come on. We can take Gus, too, you just have to put on his sweater and booties. He doesn’t like it when I do it, and it’s cold as shit outside.”

Gus grunts at them like he’s asking them to hurry up, so Harry slides out of bed and sits down on the floor next to him. He grabs the sweater from Louis and starts to put it on Gus, because he’s a little dog and they’ll probably be out for a while. 

“Thank you,” he says softly as he tugs down the sweater over Gus’ back. He turns to Louis, smiling but with tears in his eyes. It’s stupid to cry over this, but it’s. . . It’s not. It’s really not. Louis leans over and presses a kiss to his forehead.

After Harry gets Gus situated, they both slide on their own clothes. Harry’s stupidly excited, his heart somewhat racing in his chest, and he shares a warm, shy smile with his mum as Louis tugs him along out of the house. 

They drive to the park, and the lights are visible from the parking lot. Harry grabs Gus’ leash and helps him hop out of the car, and then he grabs Louis’ hand as they start walking around. There’s not too many other people here, thankfully, but even if there were, Harry doesn’t think it’d matter much. He doesn’t care if people see. 

After walking around for a while, they find a bench to sit on that isn’t covered with snow and huddle together for heat. Gus sits in their laps, and Louis rubs his cold, gloved fingers over Harry’s forearm as he stares ahead at a row of golden-lit deer. Something in Harry’s mind is greatly soothed over all this; that first date was probably the last good memory of Sam that Harry thought was worth keeping, and now he doesn’t have to hold onto it. He can let that go, too. He can let it all go. 

Harry’s wipes at his red nose, still staring at the deer, before saying, “We’re going to have an obnoxious Christmas wedding. Like. Lights and deer and Christmas trees. Snow everywhere.” He turns to Louis, grinning like mad. “Just so you know.”

Louis’ grinning right back at him. “Good to know. Thanks for informing me.”

It starts to snow a few minutes later, new flakes piling onto the old mounds of snow, and the three of them sit for a long time. Long enough for snowflakes to start painting their red hats white. And they stay anyway, because there’s no rush. There’s nothing else they could possibly need that isn’t right here. 

Harry never knew peace like this existed until now, and he’s soothed in knowing that this memory will never have to become tainted. 

**Author's Note:**

> thank you so much for reading!! i hope you liked it. a few things:  
> 1\. again, i highly suggest listening to i like to dance by alex the astronaut  
> 2\. i have a twitter if you want to come talk to me (@ bravestylesao3)  
> 3\. i love reading your comments!!  
> 4\. tumblr: bravestylesao3 (i posted songs that remind me of this fic!)


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